


Indecipherable

by undercoverwarlock



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A lot of LoTR references, Auror Harry Potter, Case Fic, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Draco Malfoy/Original Male Character(s), Quite a bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:33:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28778337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undercoverwarlock/pseuds/undercoverwarlock
Summary: No matter how many years Harry spent on the force or the number of crime scenes he visited, he never got used to the sight. It didn’t help that the scene was splattered in blood, or that Harry knew the victims, but it especially didn’t help that Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were dead, in their own home. And Draco Malfoy was nowhere to be found.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 10
Kudos: 122





	1. The Case of the Unseen Killer

**Author's Note:**

> Characters belong to JK Rowling, but she's still a TERF.

Harry took a deep breath. He tightened his grip on the takeaway coffee, the heart burning against his palms. Right then.

No matter how many years he spent on the force or the number of crime scenes he visited, he never got used to the sight. It didn’t help that the scene was splattered in blood, or that Harry knew the victims, but it especially didn’t help that Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were dead, in their own home.

“Isn’t this a conflict of interest?” Harry had protested when Robards assigned him as the case supervisor. Robards, a big burly man with a silver stripe in his thick black hair, shrugged.

“If that were true, any case involving ex-Death Eaters or dark magic would be a conflict of interest for you, Potter,” he pointed out, handing Harry the file. “Besides, Kellen can’t take point on this, she’s still a Junior Auror and needs a Senior to oversee things.”

“This is different, sir. I know the victims, I went to school with their son,” Harry argued. He didn’t take the file. Robards sighed.

“All of my other Senior Aurors are on cases. If anyone else was available, trust me, I would give it to them. But speed is of the essence here. At least do the initial crime scene report, and if it’s too much, I’ll have Auror Singh switch cases with you, but we both know Kellen would prefer to have you on this with her.”

So Harry caved and took the file, even though he knew that none of this could end well.

He arrived at the Manor through the drawing room Floo, after making a quick stop for coffee at the stand in the Ministry Atrium. He only had a moment to take in his surroundings – the rich furnishings, the marble floor, the memory of Hermione’s screams and a dagger hurtling through space – before the officers at the scene descended on him and carried him towards the dining room. Harry stood in the doorway for a moment, clutching his coffee, breathing deep to centre himself before the memories swept him away.

“Kellen, brief me,” he said, and strode into the room. Junior Auror Kellen, a tall woman with deep auburn hair and a penchant for vintage fashion, immediately began running through the details of the case. She and Harry had worked several cases together in the past and had developed such an efficient relationship that everyone assumed they were dating. Then Kellen brought her wife to post-work drinks at the Leaky Cauldron.

“Victims are middle-aged white male wizard, Lucius Malfoy, and middle-aged white female witch, Narcissa Malfoy. Attack is believed to have occurred between 9:30am and 10:00am this morning, after they sat down for breakfast and before the house elf came in to check on them.”

Harry nodded to himself, walking down the length of the room, officers scurrying out of his way as he took in the scene. A breakfast service, complete with toast racks and cafetieres, had been laid out on the gleaming oak table that spanned almost the entire room. The summer sun shone through the tall windows, warming the wood-panelled walls and glinting off the cutlery. Narcissa was at St. Mungo’s in a magically-induced coma, and Lucius’s body had been taken to the forensics lab, but the blood was still fresh on the golden wool carpet. There was a place setting at either end of the table, and there the blood lay thick over the china plates and remains of half-eaten breakfasts. There was, strangely, a third place setting at the middle of the table, facing the grand marble fireplace on the opposite wall.

“House elf by the name of Wilkins reported the crime at 10:05am. He did not see the crime take place and says he did not hear anything unusual. He found his master dead and his mistress bleeding out at the dining table – he did not see anyone else, although the Malfoy son, Draco, was at the breakfast.”

Harry, who had been examining the third place setting and wondering at the lack of blood, looked up sharply. “Malfoy – I mean, Draco was here?” he interjected.

“Yes, sir,” said Kellen. She pointed with her self-inking quill at the plate, which still had a bit of jam-covered toast on it. “We suspect he Apparated away. We searched the house – he isn’t here, and the wards only let Malfoys Apparate or Floo in and out. Wilkins had to get us in before we could lift the wards on the drawing room Floo.”

“Seems pretty straightforward if you ask me,” sneered one of the Junior Aurors, a brash and over-confident young man named Jenkins with the swagger only good looks and privilege could bestow. He reminded Harry of McLaggen, so, on principle, he didn’t like Jenkins very much. “The son obviously got into an argument with his parents, snapped and tried to kill them before running away. Case closed.”

Harry levelled his gaze at Jenkins, his lips pressed into a thin line. Jenkins grew uncomfortable under his scrutiny, but raised his chin nonetheless in an attempt to appear authoritative. Kellen raised her notepad to hide her smirk.

“What do you know about the Malfoys, Junior Auror Jenkins?” Harry asked in a cool, neutral tone, like a teacher asking a student to show his work.

“They’re ex-Death Eaters. Housed You-Know-Who during the war. Lucius Malfoy got five years in Azkaban and the son was paroled. Er, they’re, er, well-off, son works at St. Mungo’s as a potion developer, been in the news a bit recently with his work. Er.” He tugged at the collar of his red Auror robes under the growing weight of Harry’s unrelenting gaze. “That’s, that’s about it, really.”

“Right. Now, tell me, what curse was used in this attack?”

Jenkins face took on a greyish hue. “Some sort of Cutting curse?” he squeaked.

“Correct. Based on the initial diagnostics in the file, it was _Sectumsempra_. Now, you think that Draco got into some sort of heated argument with his parents – over what? You don’t know? Well, it must have been something incredibly important for him to have used this specific curse. Interesting choice, isn’t it? Not a very common curse – in fact very few people know about it. Why not use the Killing curse? It’s faster. Ninety-nine percent success rate, although if you ignore me it would be a hundred percent, wouldn’t it?” Harry raised an eyebrow, and Jenkins whimpered. “But no,” Harry continued, “he used a curse meant to maim, to hurt, a curse that without the counter curse keeps the blood from clotting and is thus almost impossible to heal. A curse he himself has personal experience with. Did you know, Jenkins, that when he was sixteen, Draco was attacked with that same curse, leaving him scarred for life? No? Why, do you think, Jenkins, would he use that particular curse to kill his parents in a fit of sudden and uncharacteristic bloodlust over breakfast? Explain that for me, would you, Jenkins?”

Jenkins seemed to shrink before Harry, shaking in his boots. The other officers kept their heads down, but Harry heard a few chuckle and snort at the poor Junior Auror being picked apart by the great Senior Auror Potter. Harry took a sip of his coffee, never breaking his stare.

“Well, maybe it was someone else then, maybe the same person who attacked Draco when he was sixteen?” Jenkins suggested in a small voice. Harry’s lips twitched into a cold, crooked smile.

“And who do you think attacked Draco when he was sixteen? When, mind you, he was still at Hogwarts, and recently marked as a Death Eater?”

Jenkins shook his head with wide eyes. Harry leaned in, his smile becoming a conspiratorial smirk as he lowered his voice and said, “It was me. Right after he tried to use the _Cruciatus_ curse. But,” he straightened up, his green eyes sparkling with smug mischief behind his glasses, “I can assure you, I didn’t do this, since I was in the office when it happened. So bang goes that theory as well. Maybe try not jumping to conclusions before you have all the evidence, eh, Jenkins?”

Harry turned away, leaving Jenkins a trembling mess behind him. He made his way over to the fireplace, where Kellen was conferring with one of the forensic staff. She dismissed the other man as Harry approached. He gave her a side-long look, and she smirked, a dimple forming in her cheek.

“Was that too much?” Harry asked, his voice quiet but clear. Kellen gave a miniscule shrug as she glanced over at Jenkins.

“They have to learn one way or another,” she replied. Harry let out a dry chuckle and her smile broadened. “In any case,” she said, gesturing at the room, “it looks like it happened rather quickly – no sign of a struggle. Whoever did it got in and out and didn’t waste any time doing it. But how did they get in?”

“And why not use the Killing curse?” Harry added, gesturing at the blood-spattered table with his coffee cup. “Why use that particular curse? This was personal. Vindictive.”

“But it was also planned,” Kellen pointed out. “The perp must have known they would all be here, that they could hit all of their targets within minutes and not be detected or seen.”

“So where is Malfoy – Draco, I mean?” Harry demanded. Something caught his eye and he crouched down to look at the hearth. He turned his face up towards Kellen, pointing at where the carpet came up to the hearth. “Ash. There’s ash on the carpet, just here at the edge, and here – that’s the edge of a shoe print. Not much to go off of, just a bit of the heel. So, they Floo’d in, stepped out, got ash on the carpet, cursed them, then stepped back and Floo’d out.” Harry stood up, his frown etching itself deeper as he looked from the fireplace to the empty chair opposite. “So where was Malfoy?” he asked, half under his breath. Kellen raised an eyebrow, but he pressed on. “If he was sat there, he should have been the first to be attacked, but there’s no sign of him.” He ran his free hand through his curls, fingers tugging at tangles as he tried to puzzle it all out. “None of this makes sense,” he said with a rough sigh. “Where’s the house elf? I’d like to hear his story.”

“Down in the kitchen, sir. He was very upset. We got his statement, I have it here, and there’s an officer down there with him, but he insisted that he carry on with his chores. I suspect he’s in shock, sir.”

Wilkins did not look in shock. He was whistling to himself as he did the dishes, standing on top of an upended milkcrate to reach the sink. It was only when Auror Williamson, who had been awkwardly keeping watch by the doorway, told him that Wilkins had been washing the same dish for the past twenty minutes that Harry began to see the problem. Harry set his empty coffee cup down on the kitchen table and approached the house elf, clearing his throat. Wilkins turned around. He was wearing a neon pink pair of washing up gloves, a harsh contrast to the filthy pillowcase he wore. His tennis-ball sized eyes bulged at the sight of Harry.

“Mr. Potter!” he squeaked. “It’s an honour!”

Harry gave him a gracious smile. “The honour is mine,” he replied, making Wilkins blush as pink as his gloves. “Wilkins, isn’t it? Would you mind sitting down with me? I need to hear your side of the story.”

After escorting a teary-eyed Wilkins to the table – “Like an equal! Wilkins has heard of Mr. Potter’s kindness, but could not believe! Sitting! With Mr. Potter!” – Harry pulled out two chairs for them and sat down. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, so that he was eye-level with the house elf, who kicked his heels as they dangled so far above the ground. “First,” said Harry, “I was wondering what the occasion was – for Draco to be visiting, I mean. I understand he moved out some time ago.”

Wilkins blinked in surprise. “Why,” he said, “it’s the young master’s birthday! Twenty-eight years, sir. They were meant to spend the day together – the young master is always so busy, and Wilkins hasn’t seen him at the Manor in a long time, not since last Christmas, sir.”

“Why’s that?” Harry asked. Wilkins looked down at his pink-gloved hands for a moment. His pale eyes were shifty when he looked back up.

“The young master,” he said, choosing his words with care, “had an argument with master, a few years ago now. Then, last Christmas, the young master visited, said he wanted to make amends, and master and mistress were so happy. Oh, Wilkins was overjoyed, sir. This was only the second time since then that he’s visited, sir – it was to be breakfast, then master and mistress were going to give the young master a couple of presents – a notebook from master and mistress had gotten him a lovely set of dress robes – and then they were going to walk about the grounds, just like they used to when young master was a boy, or so Wilkins has been told, Wilkins was not with the family then.”

Harry nodded to himself, his lips pressed into a thin line as he mulled this over. How had he not realised it was Malfoy’s birthday? It would have been in the file, should have been obvious… “How did Mal-Draco seem? Was he happy, excited? Or was he anxious, uncomfortable?

Wilkins frowned. “Wilkins couldn’t say sir,” he said. “When he was younger, the young master was more… open with his moods. But since the war…there was nothing out of the ordinary about him, sir,” he assured Harry. “He was just… quiet?”

“Reserved?” Harry suggested. Wilkins nodded. “What about Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy? How did they seem?”

“Oh, so happy, sir! They haven’t celebrated the young master’s birthday with him in many years.”

“As far as you know, had they recently had any other visitors? Any odd messages?” Harry asked. Wilkins cocked his head in thought.

“No, sir,” he said. “Not that Wilkins knows of.”

“Alright. That’s fine. Now, Wilkins, could you walk me through what happened today? As much as you can.”

Wilkins blanched, but nodded, swallowing hard. He told Harry he had greeted Draco at the door at 9am, and escorted him to the conservatory where Lucius and Narcissa were having their morning coffee. Then, at 9:30, Wilkins announced that breakfast was served. The Malfoys sat down in the dining room, and Wilkins had waited a few moments to see if they needed anything. Then he went downstairs to start on the dishes. At 10am, he went up to check on them, and found – Wilkins trailed off then, his eyes filling with tears. Harry went and got him a towel he could use as a tissue. When Wilkins finally composed himself, he continued in a choked whisper, “Mistress was still – still breathing, when Wilkins found them. She – she told Wilkins one word – ‘help’. So Wilkins got help.”

“Did you see anyone else in the room?”

Wilkins shook his head.

“And was Mal- I mean, was Draco there?”

Again, Wilkins shook his head, but there was a thought growing in his wide eyes. “You don’t think, sir-? No, young master could never, he loved master and mistress!”

“Even though he hadn’t spoken to them in years? Only to, out of the blue, show up, wanting to reconcile?” Harry pointed out, hating himself for recognising the logic behind the conclusion. But Wilkins was shaking his head so adamantly that his ears flapped against his cheeks.

“No, no, sir,” he insisted. “Young master could never harm them! Even when they argued he was always very civil. No, no, Wilkins won’t believe such lies!”

“Alright,” Harry said in an attempt to assuage the distressed elf. “Alright. I had to ask. Now, I just have one more question, then I’ll let you go.”

“Of course, sir, anything.”

“Is there anyone you can think of that would wish Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy harm?”

Wilkins trembled. His gloves squeaked as he wrung his hands. “Well, sir,” he said, voice shrill, “master and mistress have not had it easy since the war. Poor mistress, all those years without master, and neither went out, as they once did. Perhaps those who supported you against You-Know-Who would want to hurt them, but it’s been years, sir, and they’ve been so good to Wilkins. No, Wilkins can’t think of anyone, sir.”

Later, Harry would regret not asking more about the argument between Malfoy and his parents. But in that moment, all he did was thank Wilkins for his time. Then he went back up, checked in with Kellen, and Floo’d back to the DMLE. After hours of pouring over the case file with Kellen, he was no closer to an answer. His only hope was that Narcissa would wake up from her coma and be able to tell Harry what happened.

Of course, it could never be that simple.


	2. Missing Person

Two days later, just when Harry had been notified that Narcissa had woken up from her coma, he arrived to find St. Mungo’s in an uproar. Someone had come in to Narcissa’s room, somehow unnoticed by the security outside and undetected by the wards around the room, and killed her before disappearing without a trace. Harry interrogated the staff, the security detail, everyone. He checked all the wards. No one had seen anything. The wards were still in place. And Narcissa Malfoy was dead.

Harry sat down heavily in the chair beside her bed. He scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. He looked over at the form of Narcissa on the bed, covered in a white hospital sheet.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Malfoy,” he whispered to the silent room. “I couldn’t save you the way you saved me. But I promise, I will try to find your son, and when I do, I will do what I can to protect him for you.”

-

A week passed since the attack at Malfoy Manor. At Harry’s insistence, Robards let Kellen be the lead investigator on the case, so long as Harry continued to supervise her through her first case as lead. But even the two of them working together could not make head nor tail of the case.

“It’s got to be some highly trained assassin,” said Kellen as they stared at the board covered with their notes and evidence photos. Her Auror robes were draped over her chair, and she was wearing a fashionable navy sailor’s uniform, complete with high-waisted trousers with golden buttons and a little white scarf tied around her neck. “Someone who can get in anywhere undetected.”

“But if it’s an assassin,” said Harry, “who hired them?”

In the end, Harry left the office that night convinced that it would take them years to solve the case. Wanting to clear his head a bit, he walked home from the Ministry instead of Apparating. It was a clear, warm summer night, the sky ablaze with the late setting sun. The square near Grimmauld Place was full of life, the trees waving their young leaves at Harry as he passed, the sound of children laughing and muffled conversation drifting on the breeze. Harry smiled to himself. He forgot, sometimes, that life went on.

Then, he frowned.

Someone was standing at the wrought iron fence between numbers eleven and thirteen, staring at the brick fronting as if it had personally offended them. There was a Glamour charm on them so that Harry’s gaze kept wanting to slide off them, like oil on water. When he was a couple feet away, the figure turned, and Harry froze, mouth agape, as the Glamour charm fell away.

“ _Malfoy_?”

Malfoy’s eyes widened. He pressed a finger to his lips, shaking his head. Harry found himself lost for words, drowning in a wave of emotions he couldn’t process fast enough – relief, anger, confusion, fear. He grabbed Malfoy’s arm – bony, but there, real and warm in his grip.

“Where have you been?” Harry demanded. “We’ve been looking for you!”

“Trust me, I’ll explain everything,” Malfoy hissed, his voice hoarse, his eyes darting about the street. “Just – not here. Where’s the bloody house?”

Harry let out a laugh. Then he turned, still gripping Malfoy’s arm, and waved at where number twelve was already squeezing itself into existence. Malfoy huffed. Harry could have sworn he heard him mumble, “Of course.”

Once inside, Malfoy put his hand on Harry’s shoulder, his face pale and drawn. “You’re not going to arrest me, are you?” he asked. Harry shook his head.

“No, no of course not,” he assured him. “I’m off duty, and besides, you didn’t do it, did you?”

Malfoy blinked, his face blank with shock even as his shoulders relaxed. “No,” he murmured. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. You know I couldn’t. They’re my parents.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathed. He covered Malfoy’s hand on his shoulder with his own, gave it a small squeeze. “I know.”

They stood like that for a minute too long. Then Malfoy stepped away, letting his hand drop, and the moment was gone.

Harry led him to the kitchen and gestured for him to sit down as he put the kettle on for tea. Malfoy sat at the edge of his chair, his back ramrod straight as he craned his neck to take in his surroundings. Harry had to stifle a chuckle at Malfoy’s expression. This was a victim, a potential witness – this was all part of the case, he couldn’t lose sight of that. Not even when he was making Draco Malfoy tea in his kitchen.

“Can I get you anything? Water? Something to eat?”

Malfoy jumped. “W-water’s fine,” he stuttered. Harry nodded and filled a glass from the tap before sitting down opposite Malfoy at the long kitchen table, placing the glass in front of the other man. Malfoy drank greedily. Harry frowned as he took a closer look at him. Malfoy’s clothes were clean enough – simple grey button-down and black trousers – but they were wrinkled and rumpled. He was thin, his cheekbones sharp, and dark shadows bloomed under his eyes. His hair was not styled, and to Harry’s surprise there was a gentle wave to the white-blonde locks. Malfoy set the empty glass down and met Harry’s inquisitive gaze, his eyes hollow.

“What happened, Malfoy?” Harry asked, baffled.

“I don’t know,” Malfoy replied, his voice less hoarse but still weak. “It all happened so fast.”

“Where have you been?”

“Scotland.”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“What? I panicked! I went to my flat first, but the second I got there I knew that was a mistake and apparated and, and – the next thing I knew, I was in Scotland. Not too far from Hogsmeade, I think, just near the Hog’s Head.” The words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush, as if once he had begun, he couldn’t stem the flow. “I walked until I found a barn and stayed there as long as I could. Then I cast a glamour on myself and went into Hogsmeade, got some supplies. I ended up camping out in the Shrieking Shack, of all places.” He and Harry shared a look, both remembering a day back when they were thirteen, mud and a disembodied head.

“Then,” Draco continued, clearing his throat, “I saw the news when I went back into town for more supplies, and I saw that – that…” He swallowed and broke off, looking down at his hands. The kettle whistled, startling them both. Harry got up and got the tea things together along with a plate of biscuits. Once Malfoy had his cup of tea and had practically inhaled all the custard creams, he picked up his story.

“I knew I couldn’t stay in the Shack, but the _Prophet_ had all but blamed me for – for it, and I didn’t – didn’t know where to go. Then I remembered when Yaxley found this place during the war, where you and Weasley and Granger were hiding out, so I came here, because I know from the family records that it belongs to you, but the house wouldn’t let me in.”

They were quiet for a long while as they drank their tea. Malfoy finished the plate of biscuits, so Harry got more. When he sat back down, biting back a grin when Malfoy’s hand shot out to steal a digestive, he came back to the same question.

“But, Malfoy, what _happened_?”

Malfoy lowered his half-eaten biscuit. His lips grew thin, his grey eyes shadowed. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

“I didn’t see it happen,” he said quietly. “Not really. I had gone to the toilet, and when I came back, he had just cursed my mother – ”

“He?” Harry interrupted. Malfoy nodded.

“I didn’t get a good look at him,” he admitted. “He – He was wearing a cloak and his hood was up, and he wore a mask that covered his face. But yes, I think it was a man. He – He turned his wand on me, and I – I Disapparated.” The biscuit dropped from his hand as Malfoy covered his face, a sob torn from his chest. “God, I’m such a fucking coward, I didn’t even try to save my own parents!”

Harry didn’t know how to deal with a crying Malfoy. The last time he had, Malfoy had tried to curse him. But the man had just lost his parents, and Harry did know how to deal with that.

“Your life was in danger,” he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. “Whoever it was, they were going to kill you next. No one could blame you for saving yourself.”

“You would have done something,” Malfoy snapped, lowering his hands to glare at Harry. “If you had been in my shoes, you would have done something, wouldn’t you? You never ran away from someone who’s trying to kill you.”

“Yes, but I’m Harry Potter,” he pointed out, lips twitching. “I never had much of a choice – it’s in the job description. I can’t expect everyone else to do the same as me in any situation, because that would be ridiculous. You did the best thing you could have done. Because you escaped, we just might be able to track down whoever did it and bring them to justice.”

“Justice,” Malfoy sneered, but it was half-hearted. His shoulders slumped as he wrapped his hands around his cup. “I don’t care about justice,” he mumbled, half to himself.

“What do you care about?” Harry asked. Malfoy shrugged.

“Not dying, for starters.”

Harry chuckled. “Well, we can work with that. I’ll need to get in contact with my superior, fill him in on the situation. In the meantime, you can stay here, I have a spare bedroom and I can lend you something to sleep in.” He got up and made to clear away the tea things, but Malfoy stopped him, one hand stretched across the table towards him.

“Potter.” Malfoy licked his lips, suddenly unsure. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Normal people say thank you,” Harry said with a teasing smile. Malfoy rolled his eyes, but smiled back, small and sincere, and Harry blinked in surprise.

“Then thank you.”

Harry showed him around, pointing out the bathroom and the guest room, and gave him a set of cotton pyjamas to sleep in. But as Malfoy took the pyjamas from him, he frowned at the folded fabric, something like worry in the crease of his brow.

“I saw there’s a – er, a fireplace, in the guest room,” Malfoy said finally, not looking up. Harry nodded, confused. “It’s not, er, connected to the Floo network, is it?” He glanced up, his grey eyes betraying a flash of fear.

Harry shook his head. “No, no of course not,” he said quickly. “Only the kitchen and living room are connected, and only to a few places.”

Malfoy nodded, not looking convinced. “Right,” he mumbled, holding the pyjamas close to his chest. He stared at them as he said, very slowly, “Could you, maybe, if it’s not too much trouble… Could you stay in my room tonight? Not – not in my bed, obviously,” he added, blushing. Harry fought back the laughter bubbling his throat at the sight of Malfoy flustered. “I just – it’s stupid, never mind.”

“No,” Harry assured him. “No, I understand. It’s, er, part of the job. Have to protect the witness,” he explained when Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “I’ll set up a cot at the end of the bed, and I can move the dresser in front of the fireplace to make sure it’s completely blocked. How does that sound?”

Malfoy blinked in surprise. “Really?”

Harry shrugged. “Of course,” he said, “if it makes you feel better.” To himself, he added, _I promised your mother I would protect you_.

“That’s… very nice of you,” Malfoy said, one eyebrow raised in suspicion. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked down at the pale blue rug and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Part of it was that this was his job – if they lost their only witness, they would have no hope in solving this case – and part of it was his promise to Narcissa. But the truth was bigger than that. He hadn’t seen Malfoy in years, not since he had given back his wand after the trial. They hadn’t said much then – two exhausted kids, their loss reflected back at each other – it was a moment passed too quickly. Since then, though, Harry had kept tabs on Malfoy, watched his professional career from afar, imagining a time just like this where, maybe, they could start over. So he told Malfoy as much.

“I want to start over,” he said, addressing Malfoy’s scuffed up Oxford shoes. “With you, I mean.” He shrugged. “That, and if you died, this case would fall apart, so I have to keep you alive.”

Malfoy’s astonishment was quickly replaced with weary acknowledgement. “Right. Well.” He cleared his throat and gestured out to the hall, “I’m going to take a shower and, er, get ready for bed, I guess.”

“Right, of course. I’m just going to contact my superior, make sure everything’s in order.”

Robards was not happy about Harry calling him on his personal Floo, but once Harry explained the situation, he did concede that this was sufficiently urgent. They came up with a plan just as Harry heard the pipes stop rattling. Malfoy must be out of the shower. Unbidden, the thought of Malfoy’s wet, naked body flashed through his mind, and Harry shook his head to clear the image away – it definitely was not appropriate. He finished his call with Robards, stretched out his creaking knees, then called Kellen to bring her up to speed. She agreed to come by first thing in the morning. Her face had just flickered away into the dying fire when Harry heard the bathroom door open and the light click off.

Malfoy stood by the bed, not taking his eyes off the fireplace. He was a little taller than Harry, and the pyjamas were just a bit short on him, revealing bony ankles and pale slender arms. It made him look strangely young and vulnerable, especially with his wet hair dripping onto his bony shoulders. Harry cleared his throat as he entered. Malfoy jumped. When he saw it was Harry, he relaxed and returned to his watch of the fireplace.

Harry flicked his wand at the antique dresser below the window and it waddled in front of the grate, obstructing it from view. Then he went about pulling an old cot bed out from under the four poster and setting it up at the end of the bed. “I’m going to go and get a pillow and some sheets and get ready,” he said once the cot had clicked into place. “I’ll set up wards around the room when I’m back – in addition to the ones on the house,” he added when Malfoy looked like he was going to interrupt. “And in the morning, the other Auror working the case will come by to take your statement. We’ll go over your protection plan then. Alright?”

Malfoy gave him a tight nod. He fiddled with his wand, as if still unsure if he would need it. Harry sighed.

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” Harry said, in the same tone he used to reassure Teddy that there weren’t monsters under the bed. Malfoy only nodded again. Then, he asked,

“Who sleeps in the other room?”

Harry blinked. “Oh, you mean the one next to the bathroom? That’s Teddy’s room.”

“Teddy?” Malfoy asked, brow furrowed.

“My godson, Teddy Lupin. Remus Lupin’s son. He’s actually starting his first year at Hogwarts this September. He mainly lives with his grandmother but he stays with me from time to time.”

“Oh.” Malfoy sat down on the bed, staring down at the wand in his hands. “I didn’t know.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he left and began getting ready for bed. As he brushed his teeth, the same thought played on loop in his head – ‘what is happening?’ He got into pyjamas – ‘what is happening?’ He hesitated at the threshold of the bedroom, holding a spare quilt and pillow – ‘what is happening?!’ He let out a sharp exhale, then pushed open the door.

Malfoy was sitting in the bed, his knees pulled into his chest, the lightweight coverlet tucked in around him, all the while staring at the dresser covering the fireplace. He startled when Harry came in, his hand flinching towards his wand besides him. Almost immediately, though, he relaxed, his shoulders slumping.

Harry set up the wards around the room before turning off the lights and trying to get comfortable on the cot bed. He didn’t trust his transfiguration abilities enough to make any adjustments. He remembered all the times he’d slept in a bed just like this one, but could not remember how he had ever fallen asleep on one.

A couple of hours passed. Harry was just beginning to doze off. Then, he heard a whispered shout.

“Potter.”

He sighed. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Harry frowned. Had he heard that right? “What was that?”

“I’m not saying it again.”

So he had heard correctly. He chuckled to himself, a soft rumble in his chest.

“Go to sleep, Malfoy.”


	3. Books and Orchids

The next morning, Harry woke bright and early, a little stiff but no worse for wear. He immediately looked over at the bed. Malfoy had fallen asleep curled up on his side, a small crease between his eyebrows. Harry had a sudden urge to smooth it away. Instead, he threw off his blanket and got up to start his day.

A couple hours later, after he had showered and breakfasted, Kellen arrived in a swirl of green flames into Harry’s kitchen.

“Why isn’t your living room Floo working?” she asked in way of greeting.

“Oh, Malfoy was really paranoid about the Floos,” he said, setting a cup of coffee in front of her on the kitchen table. “So I closed that one off for the time being.”

“Makes sense.” She brushed a bit of ash off of her scarlet robes and pushed her horn-rimmed glasses up her nose – Harry knew full well that they were just for show, which made no sense to him. “Down to business, then?”

Another hour later, long after he and Kellen had gone over the previous evening’s events, Harry hear footsteps on the stairs. He got up and started boiling more water for the coffee while Kellen stood up to stretch. She had taken off her robes, too warm in the summer morning light pouring through the kitchen window, and was wearing a simple knee-length skirt and gauzy blouse with a black bowtie, looking more like a 1950s office worker than an Auror. She put the papers back in the file, setting the notepad on top, ready to take Malfoy’s statement.

Malfoy shuffled in, still wearing Harry’s pyjamas, his white-blond hair mussed from sleep. He was halfway through the doorway when he noticed Kellen. He immediately straightened up and tried to look dignified, even with the pillow mark on his cheek and the pyjama bottoms that really were much too short for him. Harry’s stomach fluttered, which he decided he was not a fan of. Must have been too much coffee. He busied himself with the French press with a small frown.

“Oh. I didn’t realise you had guests,” said Malfoy, his voice still thick with sleep. He cleared his throat and walked over to Kellen, holding out his hand for her to shake. “Hello, I’m Draco Malfoy. Pleasure to meet you.”

Kellen pressed her lips together to contain her smile as she shook Malfoy’s hand. She looked him up and down over the rim of her fashionable and unnecessary glasses, her eyes lingering on the faded outline of the Dark Mark on his left arm. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Malfoy. I’m sorry for your loss, I cannot imagine what you’re going through.”

Malfoy inclined his head politely, his expression wary. “I apologise for my appearance. Potter didn’t mention you would be visiting. This whole situation must be very inconvenient for you.”

Kellen raised her perfectly manicured eyebrows, shooting a mirth-filled glance over at Harry, who ignored her as he set the French press on the kitchen table with an extra mug. “Inconvenient?” she asked innocently. “How do you mean?”

Malfoy’s cheeks turned slightly pink. “Er, well, what with all the wards and the – my using the guest bedroom and all,” he stammered, gesturing vaguely. Harry, finally taking pity on him, came to stand beside Malfoy and said,

“Malfoy, this is my partner, Junior Auror Eileen Kellen.”

Malfoy inclined his head towards her, even as he muttered under his breath, “You always call your partner by her full title?”

“Of course,” said Harry in a stage whisper. “Since she’s my co-worker.”

Malfoy’s brow furrowed. “Is that HR approved?” he whispered. It was getting harder and harder for Harry to hold back his laughter. He clasped Malfoy on the shoulder.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said.

Malfoy’s face remained a polite mask, but his eyes were a maelstrom of emotions – frustration, exasperation, relief – that he shared with Harry alone. He turned, shaking off Harry’s hand as he leaned in to whisper, “God, I hate you,” in Harry’s ear. And oh, there was that fluttering in his stomach again, he really had to lay off the caffeine.

“Could you, er, could you face me when you talk?” Kellen piped up. Malfoy turned back to her, one eyebrow raised. She pointed at her ear. “I’m Deaf and my hearing aids aren’t the greatest at picking up every word.”

From this angle, Harry could see a pretty little flush creep up the back of Malfoy’s neck. “Of course,” Malfoy said slowly – not patronisingly, but rather as if he was resisting the urge to throttle Harry. “I am going to go get… presentable. Please excuse me.” Without waiting for their response, Malfoy pivoted on his heel and strode off, stomping up the stairs.

“Well, he’s delightful,” said Kellen. Her gaze met Harry’s, and they both immediately burst out laughing.

“You are very cruel, Kellen,” Harry said, wiping tears from his eyes as he straightened up. Kellen tried to catch her breath, angling to face Harry.

“What, for asking him to accommodate my disability? No, no, I know what you meant, but you know I couldn’t resist. God, his face! Oh, boy, I promised Jackie I wouldn’t do that anymore, she gets so annoyed.”

Harry snorted. “How many people do you pretend to be dating?” he asked. She squeezed his arm, her dark eyes sparkling with laughter.

“Just you, darling.”

By the time Malfoy came down, dressed and hair combed, Harry had set a peace offering of toast and eggs next to a steaming cup of black coffee for him. Malfoy eyed it suspiciously, poking the eggs as if expecting them to eat his fork. Harry rolled his eyes. Malfoy took a cautious bite, then another. Kellen waited until Malfoy had polished off his eggs and half of his coffee before starting in on her questions. Harry knew this must be her last case as a Junior Auror – Robards would be an idiot not to promote her – and that he was on the case mostly as a formality, so he only half paid attention while he did the washing up.

A half hour later, Kellen had gotten all the information she needed. “We’ll need to come up with a proper witness protection plan with Robards,” she said as she gathered up her supplies. Harry nodded from where he sat at the end of the table, nibbling on a piece of toast he had nicked from Malfoy’s plate. Malfoy, however, frowned.

“What do you mean, a proper witness protection plan?” he asked.

Kellen and Harry exchanged a look. “Well,” she said, “we’ll have to relocate you to a safe house and get a security team in place, for starters.”

“Oh.” Malfoy looked down at his plate. “Right. That makes sense.”

Harry, years later when he told this story, could never remember what made him say it. But once said, he couldn’t take it back.

“What if he stays here with me?”

Kellen’s eyebrows shot up towards her fringe. Malfoy’s head snapped up to stare at Harry. This time, Harry couldn’t quite make out Malfoy’s expression, but the strange fluttering sensation in his stomach was the same. He took a bite of his toast, hoping that would help settle his stomach.

“I mean,” Harry added, after swallowing his bite and clearing his throat, “for one thing, this house is virtually undetectable. For another, the people who know that Malfoy and I went to school together would also know that we’re more likely to kill each other than live together.”

Kellen paled, her eyes widening. “You’re not actually going to kill each other, are you?” she asked timidly.

“No, of course not,” Harry said with a laugh, just as Malfoy said, “I can’t risk another mark on my criminal record.” Harry raised an eyebrow at Malfoy, who shrugged one shoulder.

“What?” he said. “It’s true. And obviously, those days are behind us, blah blah blah.” Malfoy waved a dismissive hand and took a sip of his now cold coffee. “Besides, you’re right, this is the safest place for me. Don’t,” he added, catching Harry’s eye, “push it.”

Harry raised his hands in surrender with a grin. “Wasn’t going to say anything,” he promised. “But I mean, a ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re right’ in twenty-four hours? I’m honoured!” He snickered when Malfoy made a rude gesture at him. Kellen watched it all with an expression of absolute befuddlement on her face.

“I guess it could work,” she said, looking from Malfoy to Harry. “We would have to clear it with Robards, obviously, and sir, you wouldn’t be able to come in to the office, you would have to be guarding Mr. Malfoy 24/7.”

Harry shrugged. A week ago, the idea would have been a nightmare, but now, in a surreal moment of clarity, he knew this was the right thing to do. Kellen blinked several times, processing everything. Malfoy was watching him with that indecipherable look on his pointed face.

“Right, okay. I’ll tell Robards, he’ll probably want to visit and go over the plan with you both, and Mr. Malfoy, I imagine you’ll want to go by your flat and retrieve some clothes. We have a team there now guarding the fat and we can notify them that you will be coming so they can lift the wards on your Floo.” She nodded to herself and stood up, shrugging on her robes and picking up her things. “Right. I’ll go get Robards.”

Harry waited until the flames had died down before he turned to Malfoy. “You obviously don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to,” he said softly. “When Robards gets here, we can arrange something else and…”

“Potter.” Malfoy stood, his hands flat on the table. “Shut up.”

He looked down, his hair falling into his face. The ends of his hair curled in a little, just brushing his high cheekbones. Malfoy raised his head and Harry blinked, trying not to think about how Malfoy’s hair looked like ripples of pale gold. “I came here for a reason,” Malfoy said, choosing his words with care. “I came because you were here.”

Harry had to remind himself to shut his gaping mouth. Malfoy straightened up, pushing his hair back with a sweep of his hand, a faint blush in his fair cheeks. “What I mean is,” he continued, “if there is a perfect bodyguard, it’s the Saviour of the Wizarding World.”

“And of course, only the best for Malfoy,” said Harry with a crooked smile. Malfoy nodded.

“Yes, exactly. That was it. Nothing else.” He smoothed the front of his button down, and Harry noticed Malfoy bite down on his lip, pulling it into his mouth, as if he was holding back his words.

“Well,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair, “I will take that as a compliment.”

There again was that pretty pink blush in full bloom across his cheeks. Malfoy looked away, picking up his coffee to take a sip only to find it empty.

Robards was not completely happy to lose Harry to bodyguard duty. He could not, however, argue that there was no safer place than 12 Grimmauld Place, nor a better bodyguard than the Boy Who Lived Twice. So they had a team come by to reinforce the wards, and while that was going on, it was time to go over to Malfoy’s flat to collect some of his things.

Before they went through the Floo, Harry stopped Malfoy with a hand on his chest. “I go through doors first,” he told him firmly. Malfoy looked down at him, one eyebrow raised, and nodded. Harry pulled his hand back and turned away, grabbing a handful of Floo powder while repeating ‘be professional, be professional’ over and over in his head.

When they went through, dusting the ash from their clothes as they stepped into Malfoy’s flat, Harry explained, “We have to be in and out, so just grab what you need.” He looked around, his wand at the ready. The officer guarding the flat nodded at him from his post beside the fireplace, and Harry nodded back.

Harry was surprised. It was a simple flat, a one bedroom on the second floor of a converted town house. The living room was immaculately clean and minimalist, all shades of grey and green. There was a kitchenette separated from the living room by a long counter that served as a breakfast bar. Harry guessed he was expecting something much more lavish, but this looked… empty.

He gestured for Malfoy to stay put and cast a quick revealing spell. Nothing. He did a diagnostic spell, checking for any dark magic. Nothing. He made his way further into the flat, opening the door to a small bathroom and poking his head in, repeating the spells. Still clear.

“I doubt they’re hiding in the shower, Potter.”

Harry jumped. Malfoy’s lips quirked into a smile, his grey eyes twinkling with laughter. Harry put his hand over his racing heart with a sharp exhale.

“Christ, Malfoy, don’t do that! And I thought I told you to stay put!”

“You gestured,” he pointed out. “And gestures can mean anything.”

Harry scowled. This only seemed to amuse Malfoy further.

“Are you going to check the bedroom as well? See if the attacker is waiting on my bed like some sinister porn star?”

Harry’s scowl intensified, especially when Malfoy tried to strike a ‘sexy pose’. It was only for the sake of his own reputation that he didn’t break down into a fit of giggles. The officer by the fireplace just looked confused. Harry let out a huff. “You’re being very cavalier for someone being targeted by a murderer,” he snapped. He strode off in the direction of what he assumed to be the bedroom, and didn’t see Malfoy shrug.

“Your spells indicated that no one’s here. So did the team that did a sweep before we got here. There’s no point going room to room, if you ask me.”

Harry rolled his eyes so hard he saw stars. But Malfoy was right – there was no one in the bedroom either. He looked around, taking in the one room that actually looked like Malfoy lived in it. The double bed was piled with soft jade green linen and a variety of throw pillows. A bronze lamp was perched amidst a pile of well-loved books on the nightstand. The late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the tall window, highlighting a single potted orchid on the polished mahogany dresser, arranged a midst of tasteful art prints and landscape photos. There was a silver pocket watch by the white ceramic pot, its soft ticking filling the room.

“Enjoying the décor?” Malfoy asked with a hint of his old sneer. Harry put his wand in his pocket as he considered his response.

“It’s not as sterile as the rest of the flat,” he said. Malfoy raised his eyebrows.

“No,” he replied as he looked thoughtfully around the room. “I guess it isn’t.”

While Malfoy began pulling clothes out of the dresser and adjoining closet and placing them neatly into a vintage leather suitcase, Harry examined the stack of books on the nightstand. Many had spines so cracked it was hard to make out their titles, and others were thick with sticky notes and bookmarks. It was an odd mix – classic literature with gold-leaf embossing, Muggle history books, and –

“ _Lord of the Rings_? Seriously?” Harry asked, holding up _Fellowship of the Ring_. Malfoy, who was shrinking some of his clothes to fit them all into the suitcase, shrugged with one shoulder.

“I like Tolkien,” he said. He forced the suitcase closed, then pulled a small hold-all out from under the bed and went to retrieve his toiletries. Harry shook his head. He didn’t know what made him do it, but he took all three books, shrunk them, and shoved them into his jean pockets, only to find that it made his jeans look suspiciously bulky. He frowned and tossed them into the hold-all instead. Maybe Malfoy wouldn’t notice.

He was admiring the pocket watch when Malfoy returned, arms laden with toiletries that he proceeded to dump on the bed. “Don’t touch that,” said Malfoy in an oddly off-handed manner. “It’s – was – my father’s.”

Harry pulled his hand back immediately. “So why do you have it?”

Malfoy frowned at his hold-all for a moment, then proceeded to carefully arrange his toiletries inside. “It was a gift,” he said finally. “For my seventeenth birthday. He gave it to me when he got out of Azkaban, so it was more of a twenty-second birthday present, but he said he meant to give it to me before….” He trailed off. He shook his head, straightening up and closing the hold all. “All set.”

He walked over to where Harry was standing in front of the dresser. Harry – who could have stepped back and given Malfoy his space but instead found himself rooted to the spot – watched as Malfoy reached around him to pick up the watch and put it in his pocket. Then Malfoy stepped to one side and, picking up the orchid, shoved it into Harry’s arms. “You hold onto Amelia,” he said.

“You named your orchid?”

“Yes,” said Malfoy, as if naming plants was a completely normal thing to do. “She was a break-up gift.”

“A _what_?”

“I thought you said we had to be in and out. Come on.” He picked up his luggage and made his way to the living room. Harry stared after him.

“It was a _what_?”

“Come on!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this idea of Draco being a total Lord of the Ring's nerd in a previous fic, but didn't have the space in that story to really explore it there. So please enjoy me using my Tolkien knowledge in a Harry Potter fic.


	4. Security Measures

Kellen greeted them as they stepped through the fireplace into the kitchen. She only spared a curious look at Amelia the orchid before launching into the new security precautions that had been put into place. Essentially, only DMLE staff with a certain security clearance could come through the Floo, and while Harry could make calls, no calls from outside the DMLE could come through. Only Harry and Draco could Apparate in and out, and even then only on the front doorstep. The previous wards Harry had put on the house had been strengthened, making it practically invisible to the outside world except to those Harry had shared the secret of the address with.

When Malfoy heard this last bit, he turned to Harry and asked, “Should I be worried about ex-girlfriends trying to storm in here?”

Harry snorted. “No,” he said, laughing. “Ginny’s the only ex who’s ever seen the place.”

“You’ve never brought a lady home since the Weaselette? God, Potter, I pity the state of your love life.”

Harry jokingly glared at him, one hand on his chest as if Malfoy had deeply wounded him. “How dare you presume I’m heterosexual,” he said. Before Malfoy had a chance to process this, he added, “Besides, we usually go over to their place or somewhere else. And my love life is just fine, thank you, not that it’s any of your concern.”

“It is if I’m living here. And hold up, are you not straight?”

Kellen watched them like a spectator at a tennis match. She raised her quill to get their attention and they both looked at her as if they had forgotten she was there. “Can I finish going over the security measures, please?” she asked, eyeing them over her glasses. Malfoy balked.

“There are _more_?”

-

By the time the security team and Kellen had left, it was late in the evening. Harry, not having eaten much for lunch besides Malfoy’s toast, was starving. He set about cooking a simply curry while Malfoy unpacked upstairs. Harry found it oddly reassuring to hear the movement of another person in the quiet old house. He often missed having Teddy around, filling the house with sparkling laughter and excited chatter. But this was something else, as if without realising, something had been missing, only for Harry to find it in the sound of Malfoy’s footsteps on the creaking floorboards.

They ate their dinner together, their conversation easy and natural. Harry teasingly asked how Amelia was settling in and Malfoy said, very seriously, that she was adjusting quite well.

“You have to tell me the story behind it – sorry, her. I’ve never heard of someone getting a break up gift before.”

Malfoy gave him his little one-shoulder shrug as he chewed his bite of curry (which he had piled yogurt into because it was apparently “far too spicy, Potter, are you trying to kill me?”). “My ex and I had been together for a long time,” he said after a while. “We just… grew apart. It wasn’t a big thing, and the break up itself was quite amicable. So he gave me Amelia to sort of commemorate our time together.” He took a sip of his water, then added, “He’s in Ecuador now, working with Healers United.”

Harry had never been good at hiding his emotions, and that moment was no exception. Malfoy narrowed his eyes at him and scoffed.

“What are you so surprised about?” he asked, a cold edge to his voice. “That there’s such a thing as an amicable break up, or that I’m gay?”

“No,” said Harry quickly. “I’m surprised you’d date a bloke who works for Healers United.”

It was Malfoy’s turn to look surprised. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, there are only two types of people who work for HU,” said Harry. He held up one finger. “People who think they’re God’s gift to the world and two,” he held up a second finger, “people who really are God’s gift to the world and are too selfless for their own good.”

“Funny. Based on that, you should work for HU, you’d fit right in.”

“Ha ha. So, which one was he?”

Malfoy levelled a look at Harry as if to ask, ‘seriously?’ “Which do you think?” he asked pointedly.

“Well,” said Harry, considering, “I think you’d probably end up hexing the first, and the second….” He trailed off with a shrug and took a bite of curry. Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

“What, you don’t think I’m good enough for someone like that?”

Harry shook his head. “No, that’s not it. I’d think you’d find them boring.”

Malfoy blinked. In that brief moment, Harry could see him try to throw up the neutral mask to hide his shock, but it was like the Secret Keeper spell – now that he knew what to look for, he could read Malfoy like a book. He smirked.

“Don’t look like that,” he chided him. “I’ve known you since you were a snotty eleven-year-old. You don’t have to hide around me.”

That odd, indecipherable look came into Malfoy’s storm-coloured eyes. Then, a slow smile spread across his face, a smile unlike any Harry had seen from him before. It made Harry’s breath catch in his chest and send that fluttery feeling through his entire gut. But before Harry could process it, Malfoy was speaking and he had to refocus on his words.

“I guess you’re right. Besides, you’re stuck with me now.” Malfoy scooped a heap of rice with his fork and added, “I’m still not convinced that you’re not surprised I’m gay.”

“Malfoy. Have you met you? I knew you were gay before I knew what gay was.”

Malfoy choked on his rice.

-

That night, when Harry came out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth, he found Malfoy hesitating in front of Harry’s bedroom door, hand raised as if he was about to knock. He looked up, startled, when Harry approached.

“Everything alright?” Harry asked. Malfoy pulled at the cuff of his silky ivy-green pyjamas and fixed his gaze on the patinaed door hinges. Harry frowned.

“I know that there are all of these security measures in place,” said Malfoy slowly, never taking his eyes off the hinges. “Logically and objectively, I know this. But I just….” He bit his lip. Then he rolled his shoulders back and looked up at a point somewhere past Harry’s shoulder. “Never mind, it was stupid,” he mumbled. He tried to push past Harry, but Harry grabbed his arm, holding him in place.

“What was it?” he asked, searching Malfoy’s face. Malfoy sighed, staring down at his feet.

“I was just wondering if… you know, you could stay in my room again tonight? I know, it’s stupid, I just… I keep seeing his mask, and my parents….” He bit his lip again to hold back the words. Harry’s chest squeezed tight around his heart, his expression softening.

“Sure,” he murmured, “of course.” Malfoy relaxed a little, but still couldn’t meet Harry’s eyes. Harry let go of his arm. “Let me just get an extra blanket from my room. That cot bed sucks.”

Malfoy nodded once, his lips pressed into a thin line, but Harry could see the smile lingering at the corners of his eyes. When Harry came into the guest room a few minutes later, laden with an extra quilt Molly had made him as a housewarming gift, Malfoy was already curled up under the covers. Harry let out a slow breath and made his way over to the cot, only to find a book resting on top of his pillow. Harry set the quilt down and picked up the book.

It was _Fellowship of the Ring_.

-

The next morning, Malfoy stumbled into the kitchen, dressed this time in jeans and a T-shirt, and found Harry sat at the kitchen table surrounded by papers and photographs. More importantly, however, there was a large, fluffy silver cat laying at the end of the table, his feet tucked under him and his yellow eyes blinking slowly at Malfoy. Harry looked up when he came in. After his initial surprise at seeing Malfoy in anything causal, he smiled.

“Good morning. I left the coffee things out for you,” he said, gesturing to the jar of coffee and the French press by the kettle. Malfoy inclined his head in acknowledgement, still frowning at the cat. Harry followed his gaze and, with a laugh, added, “Sorry, I forgot. Malfoy, this is Auror Humphries. Humphries, Draco Malfoy.”

Malfoy gave the cat a curt bow, his frown like an apostrophe in the curl of his lips. “I am… confused,” he said at last. “Humphries… is a cat? A Kneazle?”

Harry shook his head, grinning. “No, Humphries here is an Animagus. He just prefers being in cat form. And since he’s here mainly for guard duty, I gave him leave to make himself, well, comfortable.”

Malfoy’s brow furrowed. “Guard duty?”

Harry gestured at the evidence in front of him. “Files and evidence aren’t supposed to leave the DMLE, but given our situation, Robards allowed it, so long as Humphries was here.” Humphries thumped his bottle brush tail against the table, his eyes narrowing at Harry. Harry sighed. “And,” he continued reluctantly, “he’s also here to guard….well, us. There’s been other attack. Another former Death Eater’s been killed in his home.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened, and a greyish tint came into the pallor of his cheeks. He swayed a little as he stood. Harry frowned, half-expecting Malfoy to either vomit or swoon, or both. Malfoy seemed to guess his thoughts and waved him off, instead pulling out a chair and sitting down shakily across from him. “Who?” he finally managed to ask. Harry sighed.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” he said. “Not until his next of kin’s been notified.”

“So it’s a ‘him’? Not surprising, most of them were.” Malfoy passed a hand over his face. The shadows under his eyes that had seemed to lighten the day before were once again as dark as fresh bruises. “How did he die? Was it – was it _Sectumsempra_?”

Harry and Humphries shared a look. Malfoy drew in a sharp breath. “It was, wasn’t it?” he said in a hushed voice.

“I can’t tell you that,” Harry said softly. “But I have to ask – do you know if any of the Death Eater’s knew of or used that spell besides Snape?”

Malfoy rubbed at his brow, his eyes distant and unfocused. After a moment, he shook his head. “No, there were always other curses,” he said, his voice muffled as he leaned his chin in his hand. “As far as I know, it’s only been used twice before now.” He raised his eyes, his gaze meeting Harry’s. He didn’t need to say anything more. Harry pursed his lips and nodded.

“Humphries, can you give us a moment, please?” he asked, not looking at the cat. Humphries’s ear twitched, but he got up, stretched, and jumped from the table. Mid-air, he transformed, becoming a tall man with skin black as midnight and a regal face with full lips and features that looked carved from stone. Malfoy blinked. Humphries didn’t acknowledge him, and with a bow to Harry, said, “Five minutes, sir. I need to use the facilities anyways.”

The minute Humphries was out of earshot, Malfoy whispered, awe-struck, “Why does he choose to be a cat when he looks like that? He’s _gorgeous_.”

“Focus, Malfoy.” Harry knew he should have smiled and laughed at Malfoy’s obvious attraction – he had a similar reaction, after all, when he first met Humphries, only to find out that Humphries was as straight as they get. Instead, something ugly twisted in his gut, sharp and hot like a burning poker. He stamped it down hard and sat down across from Malfoy. Malfoy, who had still been staring after Humphries, finally tore his gaze away and focused his attention on Harry. A small crease formed between his brows as he registered Harry’s expression.

“What’s wrong, Potter? You look like someone pissed in your pumpkin juice.”

Harry sighed and ducked his head, trying to school his face into any other expression. He bit his lip, dragging the soft skin against his teeth. When he looked back up, Malfoy blinked furiously, the blush creeping into his cheeks as he looked down at the table. Harry frowned but didn’t have the time to puzzle that out.

“We’ve never talked about what happened that day,” Harry said, his voice gentle and low. Malfoy scoffed as he traced the grain of the wood with a finger.

“Before two days ago, we didn’t talk, period.” He raised his eyebrow at Harry, a challenge. “And what is there to talk about?”

“I cursed you,” Harry insisted.

‘And I was going to use the _Cruciatus_ curse on you!” Malfoy snapped. “We both did things we regret. That’s it.”

“I just – ”

“What?” Malfoy glared at him, his expression thunderous. “What, you want to apologise? What you did was self-defence, I know that. Fuck, I _deserved_ it. I had almost killed two other students by that point and was planning to kill Dumbledore! You should have killed me when you had the chance. Could have saved your side a whole lot of trouble.”

Harry flinched. Malfoy’s expression didn’t soften, but he looked away, turning his scowl on the wood grain he was following with his fingernail. “Draco,” Harry whispered. Malfoy froze. Harry swallowed past the lump in his throat and continued, “You should know… I don’t blame you, not for anything that happened.” Malfoy scoffed, but he ignored him, pushing on. “We were kids, Draco. And if I was really the Chosen One everyone expected me to be, I should have tried to help get you out of that mess, not hurt you.”

Malfoy still didn’t look at him. He pressed his knuckle down into the wood, biting down hard on his lip. Harry was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Why didn’t you say anything? At the Manor. You knew it was me – even with a Stinging Hex, you would have known because Hermione and Ron were with me.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Malfoy said softly. He looked up at Harry, that indecipherable look in his eyes. “I would know you anywhere.”

Before Harry could respond, Humphries came back into the room. Malfoy’s expression shuttered and he stood. Harry watched him, wishing Humphries could have given them just a bit more time, but Malfoy was already picking an apple from the fruit basket, already walking out of the room, already gone. Harry sighed. It would all have to wait. He got up and went back to work, but not before shooting Humphries a pointed glare. Humphries, already back in cat form, ignored him.


	5. Mementos and Memories

There were three more attacks that week. Humphries became one of a rotation of Aurors on guard duty during the day. Harry and Kellen poured over the evidence, trying to find a connection between the attacks, anything that could narrow down their suspects. So far, all they had to go off of was Malfoy’s description, the use of the Floo to get into his victims’ homes, and that the victims were all ex-Death Eaters. None of them had survived.

Then, Kellen suggested that they look at Malfoy’s memory of the event. Harry was reluctant at first, but he had to admit, it would help to see the attacker for themselves. They were able to secure a Pensieve without too much difficulty. The trouble was getting Malfoy to give them the memory.

When Malfoy came into the kitchen that day and saw Harry and Kellen standing by the shallow silver bowl on the table, he immediately turned on his heel and walked right back out.

Harry sighed and hurried after him. He caught up to him on the first floor landing, right in front of where Walburga Black’s portrait used to hang – it had taken a team of Curse Breakers a month to remove it. He grabbed Malfoy’s arm, pulling him to stop. Malfoy exhaled sharply through his nose, a scowl already in place as he glared at Harry.

“Please,” said Harry, still holding Malfoy’s arm, his grip sliding down to his bony wrist. “I told you last night. We need this. And it’s just the one memory, nothing more.”

“And as I said last night, no,” Malfoy stated. This close, he towered slightly over Harry, even though there were only a couple inches of difference in their height. Harry set his jaw, his grip tightening, fingers pressing against Malfoy’s pulse point. Both their heart rates seemed to jump in the same moment. Malfoy closed his eyes for a moment as he took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, he continued, slowly and clearly, “I don’t want people having access to my memories.”

“What if I said that we would destroy the memory once we were done with it?” Harry offered. “It would just be me and Kellen who see it.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You would need that memory in court when you finally bring the perp to trial,” he argued. “Then everyone would see it.” Harry let out a huff. He hated when Malfoy was right.

“It’s just this one memory! How is it any different than people reading your statement?”

“It’s not – it’s just – it’s the principal of the matter.” Malfoy looked up at the ceiling, trying to collect himself. Harry relaxed his grip a bit – he could feel Malfoy’s pulse race against his fingertips, the sensation alone making his stomach flip. Malfoy swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Finally, he looked back down at Harry. “Just that moment, right? Nothing else from that day?”

Harry nodded. Malfoy sighed.

“Fine.”

Several minutes later, Malfoy came back into the kitchen with two vials of pearly white liquid. He gave one to Kellen, who immediately took it and poured it into the Pensieve. He pulled Harry aside and pressed the other vial into his hand. Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“What’s this?” he asked. After all that trying to get the one memory, what more did Malfoy want to show him? Malfoy chewed his lip.

“Something you should see,” Malfoy murmured, his low voice sending a shiver down Harry’s spine. “Just you, though. No one else.”

Harry nodded as his eyes widened behind his glasses. “I promise.”

Malfoy’s eyes searched his face for a moment. Then he nodded once and pulled away, retreating upstairs to his bedroom. Harry looked down at the vial in his hand. He slipped it into his pocket, then joined Kellen at the Pensieve.

After he and Kellen had viewed the memory of the attack – the shortest memory Harry had ever seen, lasting only seconds – several times over, they spent hours debating the details. Auror Tsai, who was on guard duty that day, weighed in on the discussion when they got to talking about the type of mask the attacker wore, since she had worked a case where a serial killer also wore a mask. By the time the clock struck five p.m., they were no closer to an answer, but had probably weighed every option of cloak and mask supplier known to man. It was only when Kellen was preparing to leave for the night when Harry put his hand in his pocket and remembered the vial.

“Er, Kellen? Could you leave the Pensieve here tonight? I’ll send it back in the morning.”

Kellen hesitated. She tucked a stray hair back into her sleek bun. “I’m really supposed to bring it back once we’re done. It’s on loan from the Department of Mysteries. But I guess I could say you wanted to go over the memory again, so we’re not really done with it – that is what you’re using it for, right?” she added, raising an eyebrow at him. Harry nodded fervently, his grip tightening on the vial in his pocket. She sighed. “Alright then. I’ll let them know we’ll return it in the morning, and if they say anything about it, I’m blaming you, since you’re my supervisor on this. Goodnight, sir.”

The minute the green flames died away, taking Kellen and Auror Tsai with them, Harry poured the contents of the vial into the Pensieve. He took a deep breath, his thoughts racing. What could Malfoy want him to see? After one more steadying breath, he lowered his face to the rippling water.

Going into the Pensieve always reminded Harry of diving into a lake, only to open your eyes underwater and see the hidden world beneath the surface. The grey swirling mist that first surrounded him faded and began to coalesce into marble floors and a vaulted ceiling. He was at Malfoy Manor, and there was blood on the floor. A lone figure stood in the middle of the room, dressed all in black, his hair like moonlight in the shadows. His head was bowed, and his whole body trembled like a leaf. Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

“Draco.”

They both turned. Lucius, haggard and gaunt but alive, strode across the hall towards them – towards Draco. He reached his hands up in supplication, in disbelief, a confused smile twisting his lips but not meeting his steely eyes.

“Why, Draco?” he asked, his voice a hoarse echo of the imperious sneer Harry knew so well. “You knew it was Potter. Surely you must have known. Why didn’t you say so?”

Draco’s eyes were red-rimmed but clear, tear-tracks drying on his cheeks. He raised his chin, defiant and proud, a Malfoy after all. “If you were so sure it was Potter,” he said coolly, “why didn’t you identify him yourself? You didn’t neem me. You – You just needed a scapegoat.”

Lucius flinched. His hands fell to his sides, clenching into fists. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said at last. Draco shrugged one shoulder, his eyes like ice cutting into his father, who couldn’t meet his gaze.

“Does it matter?” Draco asked, his voice only shaking a little. “He’s gone now.” Then, under his breath, barely loud enough for Harry to hear, he whispered, “He’s safe now.”

“What was that?”

“I said, he’s gone now. What does it matter if I didn’t identify him? It doesn’t change anything.”

“It doesn’t – Draco, we had a chance, perhaps our last chance, of being forgiven, of getting back into the Dark Lord’s good graces. Don’t you understand? Now you say not that you couldn’t, but you _didn’t_ identify Potter? Why? Why would you betray us like this?”

Shock flashed across Draco’s face – had he not realised what he had said? Then he clenched his haw, his hands curling into fists at his sides to hide how badly they were trembling. “I think you know why,” he said, quiet and sure.

The scene faded, the mist sweeping away the darkened hall. _Wait_ , Harry wanted to shout, _wait, there has to be more_. When the mist cleared, however, Harry stood in the Forbidden Forest, in the clearing where the Death Eaters had set up camp, where Harry – Voldemort wasn’t there. He must have been in the Shrieking Shack with Nagini at this point. Draco paced at the edge of the clearing, his mother watching him as she wrung her hands. When Harry drew closer, he could see from his expression that Draco was screwing himself up to do something, a determined but anxious twist to his mouth, the crease set between his brows.

“What are you going to do?” Narcissa asked him, her tone pleading as she reached a hand out, trying to stop her son’s constant pacing, but he shrugged her off.

“I’m going to get my wand back,” he said firmly. “I just need to get into the castle somehow.”

“And do what the Dark Lord himself could not? Draco darling, this is madness! Just stay here, with me – ”

“Doing what?” Draco snapped, turning on her. “Without my wand I am – I am nothing, I am useless. Besides, I’m not going to hurt him, I just want my wand back!’ He looked away, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Crabbe and Goyle are in the castle somewhere,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I’ll be fine.”

Narcissa wavered, her face drawn and pale. Then she stepped forward and pressed her wand into her son’s hand. Draco’s eyes widened. She gave him a tight smile.

“Find him,” she murmured. He nodded, his expression suddenly vulnerable and earnest – but only for a moment.

“I will,” he whispered. He gave her a crooked, secret smile. “We always do, he and I, somehow.” Without another word, he was gone.

The mist came again. Harry frowned, unable to process what had just happened even while the mist began to clear once more. He was back in the Manor again, in a room he’d never seen before. It looked like some sort of study, the walls lined with rich, leather-bound books and a magnificent oak desk situated beneath a large window with a sweeping view of the grounds. It was the beginning of summer, and the sun blazed into the room, turning the wood gold. In the distance, Harry could just make out a small building beyond the manicured hedges – a chapel?

Lucius sat behind the desk. He looked thin, his cheeks hollow, but he was well-groomed, his robes loose but tailored. Azkaban had aged him. Draco sat across from him. A little older, his hair no longer sleeked back but more like how he wore it now, natural and soft with its gentle wave, the curl at the nape of his neck. He looked, for lack of a better word, healthy. There was a confidence in the set of his shoulders, an assurance in those storm-grey eyes. He didn’t seem as haunted as he had been recently, but he lacked the haughty pride of their school days.

Lucius pushed a small wooden box across the desk towards Draco before leaning back, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Draco picked up the box, one eyebrow raised.

“Your birthday present,” explained Lucius. “I meant to give this to you for your seventeenth birthday, but – well, I never had the opportunity.”

Draco opened the lid. Inside, nestled against rich black velvet, was the silver pocket watch. He picked it up, cradling it in his hand like it was a baby bird.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you,” he murmured. Lucius nodded with a tight smile.

“It’s been tradition to give this watch to every Malfoy heir when he comes of age for generations. It is only right that it be passed to you now.”

Something in Draco’s expression flickered and died, growing distant and closed off. He didn’t look up from the watch as he asked archly, “Why is that, Father?”

“Well, because….” Lucius cleared his throat and sat up straighter in his chair, his hands coming to rest in his lap. “Your mother and I have been talking. Your freelance work has been incredibly successful, and you’ve made quite a name for yourself. Your potion designs for the medical field are particularly noteworthy.”

Draco inclined his head, but still didn’t look up. His fingertips traced along the serpentine form of a dragon eating its own tail engraved on the cover of the watch. When he remained silent, Lucius continued in a tone of forced cheerfulness, “We thought that perhaps it was time you settled down and find a wife.”

Draco’s head shot up, his eyes wide. “What?” he gasped. Lucius, seemingly pleased to have regained his son’s attention smiled.

“We thought the young Greengrass girl would be a suitable partner.”

Draco pulled a face. “Daphne? I thought she was engaged to that French duke,” he spluttered. Harry could see him trying to regain a foothold in the situation, the crease between his brows deepening with his frown.

“Oh, no, not Daphne. Astoria,” Lucius clarified with a wave of his hand. Draco’s jaw dropped.

“I don’t even know her!” he exclaimed. But again, Lucius waved away his son’s concerns.

“Sure you do. We’ve known the Greengrasses for years. Besides, there’ll be time to get to know each other after the wedding.”

Draco almost dropped the watch, his hands were shaking so much. But this time, Harry could see the anger burning in his eyes, in the flush rising in his pale cheeks. “Father, I can’t marry her,” he said, his voice steady and firm. Lucius frowned.

“Why ever not? She’s a good girl, and her family’s one of the sacred 28 – sure, she’s a little sickly, but Draco, what other possible objection could you have to this match?” Something dawned in Lucius’s face and he smiled, spreading his hands as if absolving a sinner. “If this is about finding a love match, I completely understand, but I don’t think you’ll find a better girl than Miss Greengrass. Besides, you can always find a mistress later.”

Draco’s white knuckled grip on the watch threatened to crush it to pieces. “That’s not why,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “Surely Mother’s told you.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed. “Ah. Yes. Well. Those… _dalliances_ are behind you, aren’t they? Schoolboy crushes, nothing more.”

“No,” Draco said. “They aren’t. Father, I’m g-”

Lucius raised a hand to silence him, his face turning away in disgust. “No, no, I won’t hear of it,” he snapped. “Once you’re married and settled, and you have produced an heir, you may do what you want, so long as it is discreet and does not come back to this family. You can never make any of that public, you understand? Our name has already been tarnished enough.”

“And whose fault is that?” Draco sneered. Lucius glared at him, but Draco pressed on, his newfound confidence overruling any sense of filial piety. “Besides, I’m seeing someone. We’ve moved in together. His name is ­– ”

“ _Draco_.”

“­ – Alec Hallberg, and he’s part of Healer’s United. He’s a good man, Father. Why can’t you just be happy that I’ve found someone who loves me?”

“Because I will not have a queer as a son!” Lucius bellowed, slamming his hands on the desk. Draco winced. Then he nodded once. His expression shrivelled as if he was swallowing acid. He stood, shoving the watch into his pocket.

“Then you won’t have a son.”

Without another word, Draco strode off. His father called after him, shouting his name, but Draco never looked back.

When Harry landed back in the kitchen, it was to the smell of butter and onions sauteing on the range. Winded and reeling, he looked around. Draco stood at the counter, chopping up vegetables and stirring the onions in the pan from time to time. Soft jazz played on the wireless. He glanced at Harry over his shoulder before returning to his cooking, adding garlic to the pan.

“You saw them, then,” he said, just loud enough to be heard over the quiet music and sizzling onions. Harry nodded. His brain was still trying to process everything – not just the memories, but the fact that Draco had chosen those specific memories for him to see, the fact that when Draco had nowhere to go he had come to Harry of all people, the fact that Draco was in his kitchen cooking dinner like it was normal. Then he realised that Draco couldn’t have seen him nod and he swallowed to clear the lump in his throat.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice gruff. “Yeah, I saw.”

Draco nodded to himself. He added sliced courgette to the pan before filling a pot with water and setting it on the back hob to boil. Harry got up, his knees a little stiff, and walked over to Draco, leaning his hip against the counter as he tried to catch the other man’s eye. Draco’s expression remained neutral as he chopped up some mushrooms before adding them to the pan as well.

“Why did you want me to see those?” Harry asked. He crossed his arms across his chest, searching the other man’s face. Draco gave him his one-shoulder shrug.

“I thought it would help answer your question,” he said. He stirred the vegetables, tension in the corners of his mouth. Harry frowned.

“Which question?”

“From the other day,” replied Draco. He covered the pan with a lid to let the vegetables steam a bit before pulling some fresh basil and thyme from a jar of water. As he sliced the basil into thin ribbons, unfurling green and bruised from the blade, he added, “You asked me why I didn’t say anything at the Manor. Well, there you have it.”

“You gave me more than that,” Harry said softly. Draco pressed his lips together and focused on pulling the tiny fragrant thyme leaves from their thin branches. “Why?” Harry persisted.

Draco sighed sharply, his shoulders falling dramatically as he turned at last to Harry, dropping his hands onto the cutting board with a clatter. “Do I have to spell it out for you, Potter?” he demanded, frowning.

Harry’s lips twitched into a smile. “I think you can call me Harry, now.”

Draco blinked. There again was that indecipherable look, but Harry thought that, maybe, he was beginning to understand. Before he could unlock it, it was gone. Draco turned away, taking the lid off the pan and adding the herbs before checking on the water, which had begun to simmer. He added a generous amount of salt to the water, then pulled a can of tomatoes and a tube of tomato paste from the cupboard. Harry’s smile grew as something swelled in his chest, like a Hippogriff spreading its wings. It was strangely endearing to see how comfortable Draco had become in Harry’s kitchen. Draco peeked at him out of the corner of his eyes and scowled.

“Are you just going to stand there watching me this whole time?” he snapped, but there was no malice behind it. Harry tried to stifle his smile. He turned so that he leaned his back against the counter, giving Draco just enough space to work with.

“How was your day?” Harry asked, glancing at Draco just in time to see him look at Harry in surprise. Draco pursed his lips.

“Boring. Frustrating.” He added the tomatoes and tomato paste, stirring them into the vegetables until it began to form a thick sauce. The water began to boil, so he added the pasta. “It’s difficult, trying to do work without the lab. All I can do is theoretical planning. I’ve written something like fifty drafts of various grant proposals I haven’t even gotten approval for. I can’t wait for this case to be over so I can go back to work. So I can – ” but he bit back his words. He exhaled through his nose, then tasted the sauce.

As Draco added salt and pepper, Harry asked, a sinking feeling in his gut, “So you can get out of this house? Was that what you were going to say?”

Draco frowned. “No,” he said. “Although that is up there.” He shot Harry a teasing smile, just to let him know he was joking. Harry smiled back, his stomach suddenly soaring back up, giving him a nauseous form of whiplash. Then Draco’s smile faded, and he turned back to stir the pasta. He let out a long sigh. “I was going to say so I can bury my parents,” he said at last. Harry’s heart clenched as his smile fell. Oh. _Of course_ , he thought. The image came crystal clear to him – Lucius and Narcissa on metal trays deep below St. Mungo’s in the freezing morgue, unable to be buried until the case was over, and Draco, unable to say goodbye.

He didn’t think. He just wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist and hugged him tight, his face buried against the other man’s chest. Draco froze. He held the spoon he was using to stir the pasta suspended in mid-air for a moment. Harry was just about to let go and step away, apologise, say he didn’t know what came over him, when there was the clatter of the spoon against the counter and Draco’s arms were around him, holding him close.

Draco smelled like pine and cedar cologne, like garlic and thyme and basil. His skin was warm through his thin cotton T-shirt, his chest solid against his. Harry felt his ribcage expand and contract with each breath, and he marvelled at it, the simple act of breathing. Draco’s arms around Harry’s waist cautiously pulled him in, as if unsure if this was a joke, if Harry was going to push him away. His touch, his warmth, his smell sent thrills down Harry’s spine, made his heart race, made something tense low and deep in his belly – oh no.

Harry stepped back, away from Draco. He pushed his glasses up the crooked bridge of his nose as he stared at the worn stone floor, the scraps of onion skin here and there. Draco hesitated, then turned back to his cooking as if nothing had happened. After a long pause, he murmured, “Dinner will be ready soon.” Harry nodded and mumbled that he needed to use the loo before walking hurriedly out of the room. He didn’t run, no, of course not. And he definitely didn’t collapse against the bathroom door, didn’t sink into a puddle on the floor as he buried his hands in his wild curls.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered to the silence. “This can’t be happening. Not now. Not with _him_. I’m supposed to be protecting him, not bloody falling for him.” He groaned, his head falling onto his knees. “I’m so fucking screwed,” he groaned.


	6. Unmasked

Ron and Hermione wanted to call. Kellen handed him a long letter written in Hermione’s neat and tidy script along with their twice-weekly re-supply box. Harry set the box to one side and read Hermione’s letter as quickly as possible.

When he had initially gone into lockdown with Draco, he’d had Kellen send Ron and Hermione a letter briefly explaining the situation with as vague details as possible, not once mentioning Draco’s name – ‘I’m protecting a witness, we are in a safe location, no visitors, contact can only be made through Kellen or another member of the DMLE, etc.’. Hermione understood all of this, she wrote, but still wanted to call and check in with her best friend. Harry had Kellen get Robards, and the three of them agreed – he was allowed one fifteen-minute call, so long as Hermione and Ron used the DMLE Floo, just to be safe. Their security measures had grown increasingly strict with the last set of attacks, and none of them wanted to take any chances.

So, a couple days later, Harry knelt by the hearth of the kitchen fireplace with his morning cup of coffee, eagerly awaiting his friends’ call. Humphries, once again on guard duty in cat form, stretched out across the files and paperwork Harry was meant to go through later, covering them with fur.

Hermione and Ron were relieved to see him. Harry tried to ask how they were, how little Rosie was, but they blustered through it. “We’re just so glad you’re okay!” Hermione gushed. “When we got your letter, we were so worried, you’ve never done anything like this before – ”

“Well, that’s not entirely true,” Harry pointed out. “This is a lot like a stakeout, really, like the one I did on the drug ring last year? I was gone a whole week that time.”

“Yeah, mate, but that was one week. You’ve been gone almost a whole month,” Ron argued. He was trying to grow a moustache and Harry made a mental note to tell him to give it up – it made him look like he had no mouth. “Does this have anything to do with those murders of ex-Death Eaters?” Ron asked. “We’ve been following it in the news. A real mystery, that one.”

Harry sighed, scratching at his scalp. “You know I can’t tell you that,” he said with a resigned smile. “I can’t really tell you much at all, really, other than I’m, you know, happy and healthy and sane.”

“The last one’s new,” Ron joked with a grin. Hermione elbowed him in the ribs, but even she was hiding a smirk. Harry rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Really,” he assured them, “I’m fine. Oh, I’ve been reading – very slowly, mind you, this case has sort of consumed my life, but you know, a chapter a night before I go to bed.”

“That’s great, Harry!” Hermione exclaimed. Her eyes sparkled at just the mention of books. “What are you reading?”

“Er, _Lord of the Rings_? Yeah, thought I’d give it a go,” he added at Hermione’s raised eyebrows. Ron had started to disengage from the conversation, his eyes glazing over – books had never been his cup of tea, and he had certainly never heard of _Lord of the Rings_ , which just made Harry more curious as to how Draco had gotten into them. He turned a little to Ron then and asked, “How’s the shop? How’s George? Has he been working on anything new?”

Ron brightened up a bit. “Oh, the shop’s doing great, especially now that the kids are home for the summer hols,” he said. “George’s alright. A little quiet, to be honest.” He frowned to himself for a moment, then shook it off. “He had this idea a little while ago, around the New Year I think, called the Skeleton Key. The idea was that it could get you in anywhere, no matter what – great for playing pranks on people without getting caught, but as I told him, a thing like that would get kids in more trouble than its worth, not to mention the trouble _we’d_ get into for selling it, you know? So he scrapped it. Says he’s been working on something recently, but won’t say what. You know, I haven’t really seen much of him recently, but Fred Junior’s apparently quite the handful so I imagine he and Angelina have had their plates full with that.”

A trickle of ice slipped down Harry’s spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck rise. A key that could get you in anywhere, no matter what? Made by someone who was missing an ear because of a misfired _Sectumsempra_ , and a twin killed by Death Eaters? But no, it was too simple, too easy, and besides, it was George, bubbly, happy George. George, who didn’t laugh for years after Fred died. George, who, by his own wife’s admission last Christmas, had become somewhat reclusive, secretive even? George, who had designed a key that could get him in anywhere.

“Oh shit,” Harry blurted out, cutting off Ron’s comparison of Fred Junior’s antics to sweet, perfect Rose. “Guys, I’m so sorry, I have to go. Actually, if you could send Kellen over for me – I’m so sorry, I’ve just had a breakthrough. Give little Rosie a kiss from me, and tell Molly I said hi and that once this is over I’ll take over babysitting duty again. But right now – ”

“No, we understand,” said Hermione. Both of their faces had grown pale and serious, snapping to attention immediately. “We’ll keep the channel open and send Kellen through as soon as possible. Is there anything we can do to help?”

“No, I’m sorry, please just send Kellen through, it’s urgent.” His gut twisted at the thought of Ron helping with bringing his own brother in – no, he and the Weasleys had been through enough, and now…

Ron and Hermione nodded and stood, soldiers trained too young. Soon enough, they were one and Kellen was stepping through the flames. She closed the connection behind her, and before she could ask, Harry said,

“It’s George Weasley. He’s behind the attacks.”

An hour later, after checking through all of the evidence, Kellen agreed that George could be a suspect and should be brought in for questioning. “Just questioning, mind you,” she said. “We don’t have enough for a warrant beyond circumstantial evidence and conjecture. I’ll go with a team over to his place, and keep you posted on how it goes.” She grabbed a fist full of Floo powder, one foot already back in the grate.

“Can’t I – shouldn’t I go?” Harry asked. He bounced on the balls of his feet, wanting to prove himself wrong, knowing that if it really was George, he wanted to be the one to bring him in, to ask him why. Kellen shook her head, her pin-rolled auburn curls bouncing against her rouged cheeks.

“No, sir,” she said. “You have to stay here, protect the witness. You know that.”

Harry looked away, deflating. He knew she was right. And technically, he was supposed to be supervising her, he should know better, set a good example. He nodded and waved her off. “Right. Well, good luck then. Keep me informed.”

Kellen gave him a sympathetic look over her horn-rimmed glasses. “Of course, sir. Send Humphries if you need anything.”

Harry looked over at the silver cat, who was sitting back on his haunches at attention, more alert than Harry had seen him in weeks. When Harry turned back to Kellen, it was to flickering green flames. Harry bit his lip, then strode out of the room, calling over his shoulder, “Stay here and keep an eye on the Floo, get me if anything happens.” He heard a distant chirp behind him as he ran up the stairs to the guest room.

It’s not that he had been avoiding Draco per se. It was just that, since that night, Harry had been… busy. And if he was more quiet than usual, it was just because of the case, you know? The third time he had said this during dinner, after Draco kept trying to get him to engage in conversation, Draco’s eyes had narrowed and they spend the rest of the evening in an uncomfortable silence. But now – now they had a suspect, George Weasley was a suspect, and Harry needed to talk to someone, not just someone but _Draco_.

He knocked on the doorframe to the guest room, even though the door was wide open.

“Potter, it’s your house, you don’t have to knock.”

Draco sat at his makeshift desk by the window surrounded by an organised chaos of books, papers and quills. He looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised as Harry came in and shut the door behind him. Draco turned in his seat, the crease settling between his brows as he frowned. “What is it? Has something happened?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern. “Was there another attack? Are Granger and Weasley okay?”

Harry shook his head. “They’re fine, I Talked to them an hour ago, I just….” He paused, biting his lip. He stood by the cot – he and Draco had managed to make it a bit larger, thanks to Draco’s more confident Transfiguration skills, and added a Cushioning charm so that it wasn’t so hard on Harry’s joints. Draco’s copy of the _Fellowship_ lay on top of Molly’s quilt. He was almost done, and Draco had already put the second book underneath the cot for when Harry was ready. He had warned Draco that if he asked Harry what he thought about the book one more time, he’d chuck the book at him. He reached out, brushed his fingers across the well-loved cover that curled up at the corners. Draco’s gaze was heavy on his skin, but still Harry was silent, unable to get the words right in his head.

“Harry?”

He looked up then. Draco had never used his name before. Even he looked surprised at himself. Harry’s mouth instinctively twitched into a smile, but it died on his lips as he found his voice.

“We might have a suspect. A team is bringing him in for questioning. I just… I thought you should know.”

Draco stood up, relief spreading across his face. “That’s great news!” he said. He took a step towards Harry, but hesitated, his storm-coloured eyes searching Harry’s. “It’s someone you know, isn’t it,” he said softly. At Harry’s look of surprise, Draco smiled, sad and crooked. “You were always easy to read. It’s a good thing you’re not a gambler. Who is it?”

Harry shook his head, chewing his lip. “You know I can’t tell you,” he whispered, his voice choked. He looked away, at Amelia on the dresser bathed in warm afternoon sunlight, trying to ground himself, to snap out of it – why was he bloody crying? In front of _Draco Malfoy_?

 _Because_ , a voice whispered in his ear, _once the case is over, you lose him_.

“Harry? Harry, hey.” Draco came to stand in front of Harry, his hands gripping Harry’s broad shoulders as he ducked his head, trying to look Harry in the eye. “Are you okay?”

Harry couched out a laugh that came out sounding more like a sob. “When did you get nice?” he asked thickly, sniffling. Draco chuckled.

“I’ve always been nice,” he said, “just not to you. You should be honoured, this is a privilege reserved for a select few.”

Harry’s laughter caught in his throat, and he coughed, trying to clear it. “Oh, I am, trust me,” he managed to say. He took a deep a deep breath, but it came out ragged and unsteady. One of Draco’s hands slid up to his neck, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin below the angle of his jaw. Harry knew Draco was trying to reassure him, but his touch had the opposite effect. His heart thrummed in his chest as he dug his nails into his palms, trying desperately to resist the urge, no, the need to hold Draco, to be held by him, to lose himself in warm skin and the smell of cedar and pine.

“Harry?”

Only then did Harry realise he had closed his eyes. When he opened them, Draco was so close, he could feel his breath brush against his skin, see the pale glimmer of stubble, the gleam of a silver scar like a comma above his lip from some forgotten fight. And there was that little crease between his brows, the same one Harry had wanted to smooth away that first morning, the one that seemed permanently etched into his skin.

Harry reached up now. Draco pulled back a centimetre, an instinctive flinch, but relaxed as Harry’s hand came up, his thumb pressing gently into the space between his eyebrows, smoothing away the crease. Absentmindedly, his fingertips traced the contour of Draco’s temple, the sharp line of his cheekbones, the soft curve of his lips. Draco gasped, but didn’t pull away. Harry’s heart jumped into his throat and it was all he could do to breathe normally, especially when Draco looked at him with those wide grey eyes. Harry, emboldened only by the fact that Draco hadn’t yet pushed him away, cradled Draco’s jaw. He searched the other man’s face for any sign that he might hit him. All he found was that indecipherable look.

Harry kissed him.

It was cautious at first, neither quite believing it was real. Slowly, it deepened as Draco buried his hands in Harry’s curls and Harry put one hand on the nape of Draco’s neck, the other against his low back, pulling him in. Tongues and teeth and panting, gasping breaths were all they knew. Hands against skin, pushed up under shirts, desperate for more. They explored friction, the taste of each other’s skin, the small intimate sounds the other made. It was everything at once, and Harry thought he’d drown in it.

But then Draco was pulling back, his gaze on something over Harry’s shoulder. Harry turned.

It was a silver hound. It trotted over to Harry, starry eyes blinking up at him. Kellen’s voice echoed in the room – _suspect attempted to flee, stunned during pursuit, evidence at suspect’s house incriminating._ There was a pause, then, _you were right, sir – it’s him_.

“Oh, shit,” Harry whispered for the second time that day. “I was right.”

He sat down heavily on the cot, which creaked beneath his weight. The hound dissipated into the air, like mist on a summer morning. Harry buried his hands in his curls, elbows braced against his knees, and tried to even out his breathing. Draco knelt in front of him, his flushed face worried, frowning. Harry hadn’t realised he was crying until Draco’s thumbs tried to wipe away the tears. He fell forward slightly, and Draco caught him, cradling him against his chest, Harry’s sobs muffled against his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Draco murmured, rubbing soothing circles into his back. “It’s okay. They caught him.” But Draco’s voice broke, and his own breaths shuddered in his chest against Harry’s cheek. Draco buried his face in Harry’s curls, his tears warm against his scalp. They shook as they held each other as reality washed over them like the tide. Draco could bury his parents, and the man Harry had thought of as a brother for seventeen years was responsible.

-

George eventually confessed to all of it. The officers on the scene had found the mask and cloak in his closet along with the Skeleton Key, a small bronze token suspended on a leather string. By that evening, he was arrested and his hearing set. Kellen broke the news to Harry and Draco as they sat at the kitchen table. She looked exhausted, her scarlet Auror robes dirty and torn from where she fallen during the chase. When she finished, she examined the bruise blooming on the skin of her upper arm where it showed through her torn robe, and tutted. “My wife’s going to be so upset,” she murmured, “she cried last time I sprang my ankle while on duty.”

Draco, meanwhile, was still processing the news. Harry watched him as he sat beside him, placing mugs of tea in front of them. Under the table, Harry reached over and gave Draco’s knee a squeeze. Draco blinked, as if taking in his surroundings for the first time.

“George Weasley?” he said at last, his voice hoarse. “Are you certain? George Weasley?”

Kellen nodded sombrely. She clasped her hands in front of her on the table, her bright red lips pressed tight as she studied him. “He is looking at six counts of murder and one count of attempted murder. That is six life sentences in Azkaban. He’s pleading guilty, so the hearing shouldn’t take long. Then, once he’s sentenced, we can release your parents to you so you can make the necessary arrangements.”

Draco nodded, his gaze fixed on the tea in front of him. His hand came down to cover Harry’s on his knee, their fingers interlacing. Harry and Kellen shared a look. She nodded and got to her feet.

“If there is anything either of you need, let me know. Humphries, you can come back to the Ministry with me. You won’t be needing the extra security anymore.”

Draco looked up at that. “Does that mean – do I have to – can I go back to my flat, or should I stay here, still?”

Kellen glanced at Harry, then back to Draco. Harry tried to swallow, his throat tight and stomach jittery. “I think,” she said slowly, “that protocol dictates witnesses stay under protective custody until after the sentencing, isn’t that correct, sir?”

Harry blinked and nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I believe it is.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Draco’s shoulders relax a little. Kellen said goodnight and, followed by Humphries back in human form, disappeared into the flames. The minute they were gone, Draco crumpled. Harry pulled him into his arms. The angle was awkward, and Harry doubted it was at all comfortable for Draco, but neither of them said a word. Draco pressed his forehead against the crook of Harry’s neck, his breath tickling the hollow of his throat. After a long silence, Draco whispered one word – “Arrangements.”

Harry held him tighter. He turned his head a little to press a kiss to Draco’s forehead. “We can deal with that later,” he murmured. Draco’s lips twitched, and the hand resting on Harry’s hip palmed the length of his waist.

“‘We’?” he asked. Harry, realising, bit his lip and shrugged.

“If you want, I just – if you wanted help, I’d be happy to help – ”

Draco sat up, silencing Harry with a kiss. “Of course,” he murmured with a small smile against Harry’s lips. “I’d like that.”

That night, after a subdued dinner, after they had both gotten ready for bed, after Draco had gotten under the thin coverlet and Harry was making his way to his cot, Draco said, “You know, you can sleep with me, if you want.”

Harry looked at him in surprise. Draco blushed and looked away, plucking at the coverlet. “Never mind, too soon, I get it.”

But Harry grinned. He picked up his book and came over to the other side of the bed, setting his wand and glasses on the bedside table. Draco watched, wide-eyed, as Harry got under the covers and laid next to Draco, holding the book out to him.

“Read to me? It’s the last chapter,” Harry said with a hopeful smile. Draco beamed. He took the book from Harry and propped himself up against the pillows. Harry nestled in beside him, one arm slung across his waist as he rested his head against Draco’s chest.

“‘Aragorn led them to the right arm of the river. Here upon its western side under the shadow of Tol Brandir a green lawn ran down to the water from the feet of Amon Hen….’”

Between the sound of Draco’s steady heartbeat against his ear and the soft rise and fall of his voice as he read, Harry soon found himself lulled to sleep.


	7. Blood and Bruises

The day of the trial dawned bright and clear. Harry looked at the pale sky outside the window as he laid sprawled on the bed, running his fingers through Draco’s hair while Draco nuzzled against his chest in his sleep. One of Draco’s legs was hooked around Harry’s, his arms wrapped around Harry’s waist, not unlike a sleeping koala. Usually, Harry would try to extricate himself and start getting ready for the day, but today, he wanted a few minutes, just here. He stretched and settled into Draco’s embrace, his hand stroking down the other man’s back, tracing the lines of his ribs.

Harry knew that sleeping with a witness was a conflict of interest. But if all they did was sleep, with the occasional lingering kiss and explorative touches, surely it was fine. Besides, Kellen was the one officially investigating the case, he was just there to be a counsellor to her and a bodyguard to Draco. And seeing as the murderer was the brother of his best friend, well… Harry sighed heavily. He still couldn’t believe it, even though he had been the one to connect the dots. But grief, he knew, could change a person. Sometimes it made them kinder, more grateful of life’s small graces. Other times, it made them desperate, angry, and there was no telling what could happen if those demons ran unchecked.

The sun started to rise higher in the sky. Harry bent his head to kiss the top of Draco’s and gave him a gentle squeeze. “Draco,” he murmured, “we have to get up.” Draco grumbled in his sleep and clung tighter to Harry. Harry chuckled, kissed him again. “The hearing’s at nine, and you said last night you wanted plenty of time to get ready.”

“What time?” Draco mumbled. Harry reached for the silver pocket watch on the bedside table, his thumb grazing the engraved ouroboros dragon, and clicked it open.

“It’s almost six thirty.”

Draco groaned. “Ten more minutes.”

Harry couldn’t help the cheesy smile spreading across his face. He set the watch down and wrapped his arm around Draco, earning a contented little hum as the other man settled back down to sleep. He could stay like this for hours, the morning sun warm on his skin, holding this man in his arms. But he also knew that they were supposed to be at the ministry by eight thirty to check in with Kellen’s team, and Draco would need at least an hour to get ready – he had said as much last night as he paced the bedroom incessantly until Harry had physically stopped him.

“Well,” Harry said, voice soft, “I guess it’s alright if we show up to the Wizengamot in just our pants, unshaven, no shoes or anything. Everyone can see how good you look in your briefs.” He traced a teasing finger against the elastic of said briefs, and Draco shivered. “I’m sure that will make a great impression.”

Draco grumbled something that sounded like, “not funny”. Harry pressed on.

“I mean, I can get away with it, I’m Harry Potter, but what ever would they say if Draco Malfoy was not a hundred percent presentable in public?”

“Prat.” Draco raised his head to glare blearily at Harry, who grinned back. “Why do I even like you?” he mumbled. Harry tucked a wavy lock of white-blond hair behind Draco’s ear.

“Because I’m cute, and fit, and an absolute delight?” Harry offered. Draco scowled, his nose scrunching up adorably. Harry gave him a little squeeze, his grin softening. “And you like me because I make sure you have enough time to get ready for this hearing. And because I’ll go make breakfast.”

Draco sighed. He bowed his head to Harry’s chest, his warm breath stirring the hair there. Harry knew he had won when he felt Draco give him a quick little kiss to the dip of his chest before rolling out of Harry’s arms. He sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, collecting himself. The light played on his back, highlighting the sharp angles of his shoulder blades, throwing the curve of his lumbar spine into shadow, his skin like soft marble. Harry’s ribs felt too small for his heart, and he bit his lip, trying to hold it all in. He sat up and shuffled over to Draco, pressing up against his back as he rested his hands on Draco’s narrow shoulders. Draco leaned his had back and Harry bent to kiss him, small and chaste.

“One step at a time,” he murmured. “You got this.”

Draco nodded, his stormy eyes weary but resolute. Harry sat back to let him get up and make his way towards the bathroom. He did look amazing in just his black briefs. “You’re gorgeous,” he called after him. Draco raised a hand in acknowledgement.

“I know,” he replied, before closing the door behind him.

-

The Ministry atrium was bustling with activity when they arrived, stepping out of the Floor and into the crowded space. Harry had to take a couple of steadying breaths. After spending almost a month locked away in his house with only Draco and a few others for company, he was suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer number of bodies around him. He glanced over at Draco. He only knew Draco felt the same by the tightness of his mouth, the flutter of his hands as he straightened his charcoal grey robes. Harry wished he could reach over and take his hand, give it a reassuring squeeze. Instead, he tugged at Draco’s sleeve. Panic flared briefly in his eyes when he turned to Harry, who gave him a small smile.

“I’ll be with you the whole time,” Harry said under his breath. “Promise.”

Draco nodded once, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. Without another word, they wove their way through the crowd to the lifts to descent to the court rooms.

The dark tile all around them gleamed as they passed down the corridors to their assigned court room. The murmur of conversation rose and fell around them as they passed little clusters of people milling about outside other court rooms. Draco kept asking Harry if they were late, why wasn’t anyone else outside their court room, oh my god Harry are we late?

They were not, in fact, late. They were fifteen minutes early to the eight thirty meeting time Kellen had set. She, of course, was already there, and had them sit in the front row of the gallery in case the Wizengamot decided to call on Draco for testimony, which, she warned, they probably would. For a long time, it was just them and a few other Aurors. Then the room began to fill up slowly. Draco got increasingly fidgety next to Harry. When he started bouncing his knee up and down, Harry reached over with one finger and pushed his knee down, holding it there until Draco let out a huff. Harry pulled his hand back with a smirk, crossing his arms over his chest. He’d forgotten how freezing cold these court rooms were.

“So you are on this case, then,” he heard from behind him. He turned around. There was Ron and Hermione, both looking worn out, their eyes puffy from tears. Ron was wearing the same black dress robes he had worn at Fred’s funeral. Hermione had a navy blue skirt suit on – since she worked in the legal department, she had more of a selection than Ron. Ron was leaning forward towards Harry, bracing his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling, limp and lifeless. “So, you’ve been protecting the ferret this whole time?”

Draco, who like Harry had turned at Ron’s voice, stiffened beside him. Harry once again had to resist the urge to hold his hand, this time to restrain him from saying anything stupid. But Draco just inclined his head, first to Ron, then to Hermione, his expression a polite mask. Harry let out a small breath of relief.

“I’m sorry, Ron,” Harry said. “When this is over, if there’s anything I can do….”

Ron shook his head and sat back, his jaw clenched. “Nah,” he said. “You’ve done enough.”

“Ron,” Hermione whispered, grabbing hold of her husband’s arm. He shook her off, his gaze still fixed on Harry. Harry, whose insides were warring between hot anger and icy hurt, chewed his lip and bowed his head, turning back in his seat. Draco glanced at him. Harry started at his knees, his hands shoved in the pockets of his scarlet Auror robes. More and more people filed into the gallery, relatives of the victims crowding onto the bench alongside Harry and Draco, some nodding at Draco while narrowing their eyes at Harry. In order to make room, Harry had to press up against Draco, shoulder to shoulder. Harry felt Draco’s hand slide into his pocket, fingers tangling with his. A risk, but worth it. Harry squeezed Draco’s hand tight, thumb brushing up and down against his soft skin. But then, George was brought in by some of the new Azkaban security guards that had replaced the Dementors, and Draco’s hand retreated back to his own lap.

George looked more like a shell than a man. His usually sparkling blue eyes were sunk deep into his skull, his stubble uneven and only emphasizing the shadows of his cheeks. His copper-bright hair was dull and heavy. The grey uniform hung off his lanky form, the chains around his bony wrists rattling as he moved. They sat him down in the dock, locking him into the chair. His empty eyes roamed the crowd, and when they found Harry and Draco, a dark fire burned in that once jovial face. Draco looked straight ahead, but Harry bowed his head, unable to meet that accusing fire.

After Kellen’s testimony, the judge, a portly woman with thick black hair and a stern face lined with wrinkles, called Draco to the witness box. A wave of hushed whispers ripped through the court room as he went. George followed Draco’s movements, a nasty curl to his lips. Harry’s heart broke in two. He dug his nails into his palms, desperate to feel anything but this.

Draco gave his testimony as calmly and in as neutral a voice as he could, just as Harry had told him. “Any emotion they will use against you,” he had warned as he straightened the collar of Draco’s dress shirt and smoothed out the shoulders. “Just give the facts, nothing more.”

“You forget, Potter,” Draco pointed out, taking hold of Harry’s hands in his, “I’ve been here before.”

Harry blinked, forcing himself back to the present.

“And the man you saw,” the judge was saying, “can you describe him for the court?”

Draco nodded. Not once did he look at George, even though Harry knew he must have felt the burning weight of the man’s gaze. He focused on the judge and said clearly that he had seen a tall man wearing a black cloak with the hood drawn up and a mask covering his face.

“This cloak and mask?” asked the judge, gesturing to an Auror holding up the offending articles for the court to see. Draco nodded and forced out a “yes”. Then the memory he had given was produced and the judge viewed it before deeming it admissible evidence. “Now, Mr. Malfoy,” the judge continued, folding her hands on the lectern in front of her as the Pensieve was taken away, “do you know of any reason why Mr. Weasley would target you and your family specifically?”

Draco bowed his head, collecting his emotions to hide them behind the polite mask he fixed in place as he raised his gaze back up to the judge. “It is well known that my family were Death Eaters,” he said, voice level. “That I was a Death Eater – although, not a very good one, I’ll admit,” he added with a hint of a self-deprecating smile. Harry was relieved when it earned him a few sympathetic chuckles from the crowded gallery. Then the smile faded, and Draco closed his eyes for a moment. “What the court may not know,” he continued, looking at a point just below the judge’s high seat, “is that I was there when Mr. Weasley’s twin was killed during the Battle of Hogwarts. I did not see who cursed him, as I was trying to get out of the situation, but I was on the wrong side, as it were.

“I will not say that my parents were good people,” he said, rolling his shoulders back as he began to hit his stride. The room had become deathly silent, everyone waiting on his words with bated breath. “I will not say that the three of us were on the right side of that war, because we weren’t. But we paid for those mistakes – my father with his years in Azkaban, my mother with years alone in a house that haunted her, and I through the word’s derision even as I tried to remake myself. We aren’t – weren’t – perfect, your Honour, my father least of all. His health was… not the best, at the end, and things were difficult between us, but we tried, your Honour. We tried. And despite it all, I don’t blame Mr. Weasley for what he admits to have done. But I have to ask,” he turned then to George, and from across the court room, Harry could see his eyes shining with unshed tears as he fought to maintain his neutral mask, “does anyone deserve to be killed on the morning of their son’s birthday?”

There was a collective gasp from the gallery.

“I will ask that the witness not – ” but the judge was cut off as George, straining against his restraints, snarled,

“Are you really asking for pity? You, of all people? You snake! I can’t stand you!”

Without missing a beat, Draco said, his cold, quiet voice cutting through the court room,

“So kneel.”

The crowd burst into hushed exclamations and disapproving whispers. George spat at Malfoy, a globule of phlegm flying through the air. The judge banged her gavel, calling for order. Harry caught Draco’s eye and held it imploringly, sympathetically, desperately. _Don’t fuck this up_ , he thought, hoping Draco could understand him. _Please, God, don’t fuck this up_.

When the room finally quieted down, only then did Draco look away, back towards the judge, who again asked him to refrain from addressing the defendant.

“I apologise, your Honour,” said Draco. The judge nodded, her face impassive. She asked Draco to outline how he knew George, and whether he or his family had any previous threats from George or anyone else – “Not recently, your Honour, but after the war, we received enough for a lifetime” – before dismissing him back to his seat. When Draco sat back down next to Harry, his hands were shaking like leaves caught in a storm. Harry felt Ron’s glare heavy on their necks. Nonetheless, he leaned in and whispered in Draco’s ear, “You did good.” Draco gave him a tiny grateful smile.

The rest of the hearing passed in a blur. All Harry could think about was the press of Draco’s thigh against his, the brush of their arms, all while George glared at them, or rather the grief-ravaged shell of the man he had known.

In the end, as they had all known, George was found guilty and sentenced to seven life sentences in Azkaban. Harry heard Ron sob a choked, “No!”, behind him. He bowed his head, biting down hard on his lip as the tears threatened to spill down his cheeks. He forced himself to look up as they led George away, but in that moment, George caught his eye. He struggled against the guards restraining him and roared at Harry, “Why are you protecting that bastard? You know what he’s done! They all have blood on their hands! Fred’s blood!”

Harry gasped. The tears fell hot and fast down his cheeks. His whole body shook with his stifled sobs while George was dragged away, shouting and screaming, out of the court room. When they stood for the judge, Harry’s knees gave way. But Draco caught him. He held Harry close as Harry uselessly fought back the tears and sobs. Draco rocked him side to side, whispering in his ear, “I got you, it’s over now, I got you.” Harry clutched at the front of Draco’s robes as he wept.

Then Draco was torn from him by a pair of freckled hands. Harry’s breath caught in his throat as he tried to blink away the tears, to see what was going on. As if through thick cotton, he heard Ron yell, “Get off him, you bastard!” and Hermione screaming for Ron to “stop, please, God, stop!” Then he seemed to catch up with the world, and there was Ron pinning Draco to the ground as he hit him again and again, even as Hermione tried to pull him off. Harry grabbed at Ron’s shoulder, shouting at him to stop as he finally managed to drag him off Draco’s shaking, bleeding body.

Kellen and a handful of Aurors rushed in to break up the fight. Humphries stepped in and bodily hauled Ron away, his arms trapping Ron’s to his sides. He nodded his stony face at Harry and said over Ron’s caterwauling, “Go, sir. I’ve got this.” Harry didn’t need telling twice.

Kellen had managed to prop Draco up and was helping him press a linen handkerchief to his bleeding nose. As Harry fell to his knees beside him, he heard her murmur, “This is going to hurt”, then a quick “ _Episky_!” Draco let out a muffled yelp as his nose snapped back into place.

“Draco, are you okay? God, I’m so sorry, I…”

“Harry?”

“Yeah? I’m here, I’m here.”

Draco lowered the handkerchief, the blood flow stemmed for now. Black bruises stretched like wings under his eyes as he looked up at Harry. He reached and took Harry’s offered hand in his. “How bad is it?” he asked, his voice thick and congested. Harry pressed Draco’s hand with his.

“It’s an improvement,” he said with as deadpan an expression as he could manage. Draco rolled his eyes but winced. Harry’s free hand fluttered uselessly, wanting to touch but not wanting to hurt. Kellen waved her wand over Draco, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Harry glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. Catching his look, she shrugged.

“I trained as a Healer before I became an Auror,” she explained. Then, to Draco, she said, “It probably feels worse than it is. You have a broken rib, but from I can tell it’s a small fracture, it’ll heal on its own. No internal bleeding, but the bruising will be extensive.”

“Blood’s supposed to be internal anyway,” Draco mumbled. Harry ignored him and turned to Kellen.

“Should we take him to St. Mungo’s?” he asked, holding Draco’s hand now in both of his. Draco shook his head, waving the hand still clutching the handkerchief.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, his voice already a little clearer. Kellen nodded begrudgingly. Draco struggled to his feet, Harry holding him up with an arm around his waist. “I just want to go home,” he said in a low voice to Harry, who nodded.

“Of course, I can take you to your flat….”

“No,” Draco interrupted, shaking his head. “No. Your place. Besides,” he added with a rueful smile, his lips and chin still covered in blood, “all my stuff is there.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Kellen piped up. “I have to ask – do you want to press charges against Mr. Weasley – er, Mr. Granger-Weasley that is?”

Draco shook his head and waved her off. “That’s not necessary,” he said, as always making sure she could see him speak even as he swayed on his feet. “He’s been through enough. I’ll return your wonderful handkerchief once it’s been laundered. Thank you… for all of your help.” Draco’s breath was becoming laboured, and he leaned more heavily against Harry as standing and talking took its toll.

“Alright, that’s enough,” said Harry. “Thank you, Kellen. I’ll see you tomorrow in the office, okay?”

“Sure you don’t want the day off?” a voice boomed behind them. It was Robards. He clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder, his dark eyes twinkling. “I think you’ve earned a break. Take the weekend off. We’ll see you back in the office bright and early Monday morning, alright? Take care, Mr. Malfoy,” he added with a nod to Draco. He gave them a convivial wave before disappearing just as quickly as he appeared. Harry let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Okay,” he said to no one in particular. He looked over at Draco. “Let’s go home, then.”

-

Back at Grimmauld Place, Harry laid Draco down on the guest bed – Draco’s bed – and propped him up with all the pillows he could find. He tossed his Auror robes onto his long-abandoned cot bed and rolled up his sleeves. Then he helped Draco out of his robes and his dress shirt so he could assess the damage. He inhaled sharply through his teeth. Black and blue bruises covered Draco’s pale ribcage and bloomed across his waist and stomach. Draco leaned his head back against the pillows with a pained breath.

“It’s fine,” he told Harry, forcing a smile at the canopy of the four poster. “You’ve done worse.” Harry scowled.

“Not funny,” he warned him before going off to get a washcloth and some healing salves from the bathroom. When he came back, Draco’s eyes were closed and his breathing shallow. Harry sat beside him, careful not to jostle him too much. He began to dab gently at the drying blood on his mouth and chin. Draco winced then relaxed as Harry rubbed the salves into his bruises. Every so often, Harry would get distracted by one of the silvery scars that crisscrossed Draco’s chest. He’d seen them all by now, but even so, he leaned down to kiss them, small acts of repentance on Draco’s skin. Draco’s hand came up to brush lightly up Harry’s arm, his shoulder, fingers finally curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.

As Harry finished applying the salves and Draco’s breath evened out as the spells began to work their way into his skin, Harry cleaned up the bottles and the bloodied cloth. When he returned, he wasn’t sure if Draco had fallen asleep or not. Either way, he laid down next to him, trying not to bump into the other man. He picked up Draco’s hand to brush his lips against the knuckles. Draco’s mouth curled into a smile.

“Why are you so good to me?” Draco murmured. Harry held their joined hands close to his chest.

“Because I think I’m falling in love with you,” Harry whispered. Draco opened his eyes and turned his head to look at him in slight surprise. Harry worried that maybe he’d said the wrong thing, that maybe it was too soon – but then Draco’s smile broadened into a grin.

“You’re just figuring that out now?” he asked. Harry rolled his eyes even as he chuckled in relief.

“Like you knew,” Harry retorted. Draco made a very serious face and nodded.

“Oh yes,” he said. “I’ve been studying you for weeks now and I could only come to one conclusion – you are hopelessly in love with me.” He laughed as Harry slapped him – gently – on the shoulder, but when he turned his head back to Harry, his expression was no longer indecipherable. Soft and sweet, he looked at Harry as if he was offering him the world with both hands. “I only knew because I know the symptoms,” Draco said, his voice quiet in the still summer air. “Because I’ve been in love with you for years, since the day I met you.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Once his shock passed, he said, “Could have fooled me. It really seemed like you hated me.”

Draco tried to shrug and winced. Harry’s brow furrowed, but Draco shook his head a little, letting him know he was fine. “Two sides of the same coin, hate and love,” he said at last. “That memory I showed you? The first one? That was when I began to realise…so many things, but mostly that I had loved you all my life.”

Harry, still cradling Draco’s hand to his chest, reached his other hand to push a wave of hair off Draco’s forehead. “What about Alec? The ex that gave you Amelie.”

Draco blinked, then laughed to himself. “I forgot you saw that memory, too,” he said, half-under his breath. He sighed, his bruised chest rising and falling painfully. “He was a good man, and for his part, I think he loved me. I was just happy to find someone who cared for me that I fooled myself into thinking I loved him, too. I think that’s why it lasted as long as it did. I so desperately wanted to prove that I was lovable, to get you out of my head, to be someone else besides my father’s son.” He raised their joined hands to brush his knuckles along Harry’s cheek, his jaw. “But even, in the end, I had to admit it was a lost cause,” he murmured. “Alec knew it too. He told me so, the day he gave me Amelia. He said there had always been a third person in our relationship, and he hoped I found them again one day.”

“So, logically, you only came when your life was in danger,” Harry said teasingly. Draco wrinkled his nose at him.

“I had to spend a couple of years on my own,” he corrected him. “One night stands to forget Alec in, months alone to remember what it was like to just be me. I told myself that you would never be an option, given our history – and in my defence,” he added, raising an eyebrow, “I thought you were straight.”

Harry snorted. “A common misconception,” he said. “We bisexuals are often overlooked.”

“Very true. Alec was bisexual too, actually. Apparently I have a type.” They both giggled at this, but then Draco gasped and his other hand came up to gingerly cover his ribs. “Ow, okay, no more laughing,” he hissed. Harry nodded, concern in the curve of his mouth.

“Let’s just rest, then,” he said. “It’s been a long day.” Draco blinked at him slowly, then smiled.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Stay with me?”

“Always.”


	8. Goodbyes

Hermione thanked Harry for the tea he set in front of her. He sat down across from her at the kitchen table, waiting for her to speak first. He was glad Ron wasn’t with her. He was even more glad that Draco was still at work, his first since the trial. He had told Harry he’d probably be working late dealing with the backup of paperwork, and that he wanted to swing by his flat to grab a few things. He’d be by for dinner around 7pm, when they were meant to go over the plans for the funeral that Saturday. Harry knew Draco probably wouldn’t mind Hermione. Still, he didn’t want to risk them running into each other.

“How are you holding up?” she asked. She searched Harry’s face, her hands clutching the cup in front of her.

“I could ask you the same,” he replied. He sighed and crossed his arms, stretching his legs out under the table. “I’m okay. Getting back into work. Draco’s fine too, if you were wondering.”

Hermione ducked her head, worrying her lip. Harry’s stomach squirmed. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “That was uncalled for.”

“No, you’re right, I should have asked. It _was_ a dick move, though,” she added, raising her head to give him a hard look. “I can’t apologise for Ron, but you have to understand – he was upset, grieving, we all are. I’m not saying he should have attacked Malfoy – Draco – like that, but Harry, you have to understand…”

“I do, ‘Mione, I do,” Harry said, cutting her off. He pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing up his glasses. “It’s just all so complicated.”

Hermione nodded. She narrowed her eyes, tapping a finger against her cup. “Maybe you should start from the beginning,” she said. She took a sip of her tea and waited. Harry adjusted his glasses as he shook his head with a small smile. The tables had turned.

By the time he had finished, Hermione had gotten to her feet and was pacing back and forth. She kept trying to smooth back her flyaway curls into her loose bun. “So you weren’t sleeping with him when the investigation started?” she said. Harry shook his head. “Well, either way, it’s good the case is under Kellen’s name, because this could look really bad for you. I know, I know,” she held up a hand to stop Harry from protesting, even though he was about to agree with her, “there’s already a conflict of interest with George. God, I still can’t believe – George, of all people.” She sat back down in her chair, covering her face with her hands. Harry nodded as he looked down at his arms squeezing himself tight. After a moment, Hermione lowered her hands, wiping away the tears that had welled up in her eyes. She turned to Harry with a weak smile. “How is Draco?” she asked. Harry smiled back.

“Alright. Tired. We’ve been sorting out his parents’ funeral. Who would have thought I would be helping sort out Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy’s funeral?” He scrubbed his face with his hand, a mirthless laugh falling exhausted from his lips. “But otherwise, he’s good. The bruises are healing.” He let out a long exhale through pursed lips as he looked at Hermione over the rim of his glasses. “Can I ask you something? What do you think of all this? Don’t hold back,” he added when Hermione began chewing her lip again. “Just be honest with me, okay?”

Hermione took a long sip of her tea. It had grown cold, and she pulled a face. “I would be lying if I said I was happy about it,” she said slowly. Harry scoffed and threw his hands in the air. “You asked! You asked what I thought! But Harry, honey, it’s Draco Malfoy. This is the same person who bullied us for years. The same person who became a Death Eater at sixteen.”

“And he’s changed!” Harry snapped.

“Maybe he has! But has he ever done anything to make amends for any of it? No!” She slammed her palm down on the table for emphasis. Harry looked away, biting back his protest. “It’s been ten years since the war. In all that time, has he reached out once? Before this case, did he ever contact you to say, hey, I was a bigot and a bully, but I’ve changed? No! He came to you when he needed you, nothing more.”

Harry’s heart sank like cold iron in his gut. He shook his head, his curls falling in his eyes, as he tried to find a hole in her argument but came up short. _Of course_ , a voice whispered in his ear. _He’s just using you. This is Malfoy, after all. He’s just manipulating you to get what he wants._

Hermione gave him a pitying look, and he covered his face with his hands to block her out. _No_ , he thought, _no, he’s changed, he’s really changed_. He thought of sunlit smiles, sweet grey eyes, the smell of butter and garlic, shared dinners that felt like home. He thought of that first night – Draco, panicked and afraid, desperate for any semblance of safety, asking Harry to stay with him, to protect him. And he knew. He knew how it all looked. He lowered his hands with a sigh.

“Maybe that’s how it started,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “He needed help and he came to me. But he didn’t have to, you know that. He could have disappeared, gone anywhere. And you haven’t been with him this past month, you haven’t seen the things I have – ”

“Like what?” Hermione demanded. “Like what, Harry? I want to know. Because believe it or not, I want you to be happy, but I’ll be damned if you get your heart broken over Draco fucking Malfoy. I know you,” she added, pointing a stern finger at him, “you don’t do anything by half. In for a penny, in for a pound, you are.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, pushing it back in his chair, pushing it back to balance on two legs. He couldn’t tell her about the memories Draco had shared with him, they weren’t his to share, so how could he explain it to her? That there was a freedom in the way Draco moved when he was with Harry? That with each soft touch, like the brush of fingertips on his arm when Draco wanted to get his attention, they built their own unspoken language? Or that the first night they spent together, tracing old scars and memories mapped on their skins, each kiss was an apology, every caress a plea for forgiveness? That night, they had broken down in each other’s arms, both sobbing, “I’m sorry,” until the words became unhinged from their meaning. He cast his gaze around the kitchen, and saw Draco everywhere – in the herbs hung to dry above the stove, in the half-drunk bottle of wine on the counter, the cupboards Draco had reorganised in a fit of cabin fever after declaring Harry a heathen for keeping his potions ingredients with his spices. There were pieces of Draco everywhere in the old house, so unlike the clean slate of a flat Draco called his own. Harry smiled to himself.

“He feels safe here,” he said at last. “He feels at home. And who am I to deny him that?”

Hermione shook her head, her expression sympathetic as she whispered, “Oh, honey, you’re in over your head.”

-

They buried Draco’s parents in the family plot behind Malfoy Manor, by the chapel Harry had seen in Draco’s memory all those weeks ago. The service was quiet – a handful of Draco’s friends had come, with some eyeing Harry with distrust and others with bemusement. Pansy Parkinson had smirked and poked Draco in the shoulder as she leaned in and said, “We have a lot to talk about,” with a waggle of her thin eyebrows. Draco had blushed bright red and mumbled something Harry couldn’t catch. He couldn’t ask what Pansy meant, though, because he had his own surprise walking up to them across the well-manicured grounds.

Andromeda smiled wearily at Harry as Teddy bounded up to his godfather. He hugged Harry tight, his head up to Harry’s waist now. As always when he was around Harry, his hair matched Harry’s black curls, unruly and wild. He couldn’t help but notice that Teddy was wearing Sirius’s old leather jacket Harry had given him last Christmas, even though it was a warm early July afternoon. When Andromeda finally drew level with him, she reached over and squeezed his arm. There were a few more liver spots on her bony hands, more laugh lines around her warm brown eyes, more grey in her mousy hair. Harry smiled back, his heart in a vice.

“She was still my sister,” she said in answer to his questioning look. Harry nodded sympathetically as he tried to arrange Teddy’s curls into an attempt at tidiness. Draco came up beside them, wrapping one arm around Harry’s broad shoulders. He said hello to Andromeda and Teddy, confused by their arrival but polite nonetheless. Teddy shyly peeked up at this new stranger while still burying his face in Harry’s stomach.

“Draco, this is Teddy and Andromeda,” Harry explained. “Teddy, this is your cousin, Draco.”

“Hullo,” mumbled Teddy, looking Draco up and down with renewed curiosity. Draco smiled, a nervous tightness in the corners of his mouth as he turned to Andromeda.

“Hello, Aunt Andromeda,” he said, voice soft. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Mother told me so much about you.”

“Did she?” Andromeda asked, hopeful even as her voice broke with the tears she held back. “I’m sorry we have to meet like this, but my sister and I…” She trailed off, her voice choked. Draco nodded, the tightness in his smile softening sadly.

“I understand,” he murmured. “But I hope, maybe, we can get to know each other a bit better? I think my mother would have liked that.”

Andromeda let out a wet laugh and dabbed at her eyes with the cuff of her black robes. “I doubt that,” she said, “but still, I would like to get to know you too, nephew.”

Teddy looked from Harry to Draco and back. “Is he your boyfriend?” he asked Harry bluntly. Harry blushed. Draco snickered and leaned in to kiss Harry’s warm red cheek.

“Yes,” Harry admitted, tousling Teddy’s hair, “he is.” He looked up at Andromeda, who raised her eyebrows at him. “I’ll explain later. But now, I think we should head in, alright?”

Andromeda wagged a finger at him, her eyes sparkling with mirth and tears. “I will hold you to that, Harry James Potter, don’t think I won’t!”

Draco grinned. “You and Pansy would get on famously, Aunt Andromeda,” he said. Harry, still blushing under Andromeda’s questioning eye, ducked his head and tried to squirm his away from Draco.

“Come on, Teddy,” he mumbled, wrapping an arm around his godson’s shoulders, “let’s get out of the line of fire.”

“Uncle Harry, if you’re dating my cousin, does that make him my uncle?”

“Oh god, not you, too.”

After the service, after the coffins had been lowered into the ground and most had left as the clouds began to roll dark and heavy across the evening sky, only Harry, Draco, Andromeda and Teddy remained. Harry and Draco said goodbye to Pansy and made their way back to the freshly filled graves, the smell of soil heavy in the humid air. Teddy had wandered off to look at the weathered headstones of long dead Malfoys. Andromeda stood beside Narcissa’s headstone, her back to them as she rested her hand on the smooth granite. When they drew closer, Harry saw her shoulders were shaking as she sobbed faintly. Harry cleared his throat. She turned, wiping at her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I just can’t seem to stop.”

“It’s okay,” said Harry, just as Draco said, “that’s quite alright.” Thunder rumbled in the distance. Harry pulled Andromeda into a one-arm hug as Draco, his arm around Harry’s waist, gave him a small squeeze. They looked down at the chalky earth, the dry soil punctuated here and there as the rain began to fall, slowly then in earnest. Teddy rushed over to them, his arms over his head to protect himself from the rain.

“Are we going now?” he asked, pushing his wet hair out of his face. Andromeda rested her head on Harry’s shoulder.

“Just a little longer, Teddy,” said Harry, raising his voice over the thunderous rain. Draco held up his wand, casting a small Impervious bubble around the four of them. “Goodbyes take time.”


	9. Fire and Water

Weeks passed before Harry saw Ron again. He had asked after him when Hermione showed up alone to his birthday party, but she had only shook her head with a sad smile. “Give him time,” she said. But now August was almost over, and Harry was starting to wonder if he was ever going to see his friend again.

Harry came home from a long day at work, a heaviness in his limbs as he dragged himself through the Floo. He and now full Auror Kellen, no longer a Junior, were trying to piece together the case of a smuggling ring, the details of which were too horrid for Harry to talk about outside of the office. Draco was already in the kitchen making dinner. He had moved in the week before when the lease on his flat had ended, and if Harry had raised an eyebrow when Draco showed up with all his moving boxes, all Draco said was, “I’ve basically been living here, why pay rent for a flat I don’t even like?”

Harry came up behind Draco, who smiled as Harry wrapped his arms around his waist and kissed his neck. He leaned back into the embrace, absent-mindedly stirring the French onion soup simmering on the stove.

“Hey,” Draco murmured with a smile. “How was work?”

Harry shrugged, resting his chin against Draco’s shoulder. “Don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbled. “How was yours? Figured out the solution for that potion thing?”

Draco rolled his eyes with a chuckle. “Good lord, you’re hopeless,” he said, grinning. “But yes, I think I’m on to something, we’re starting trials tomor-”

Fire roared in the grate behind them. Draco froze and Harry immediately turned, keeping Draco behind him and levelling his wand at the intruder. He sighed in relief when he saw Ron, and dropped his wand back into the pocket of his robes.

“Ron, you can’t do that,” Harry scolded. “Don’t make me put a ward up for you and Hermione, I keep that channel open in case of emergency, not so you can interrupt dinner!”

Draco turned then to peek out from behind Harry, a small click sounding from the hob as it turned off. He did not relax as Harry had. Instead, he set his jaw and lifted his chin, as if daring Ron to hit him again. Ron glowered at him over Harry’s head, before scowling at Harry.

“So you’re still with the ferret, then?” Ron demanded. Harry felt Draco flinch behind him. Harry reached back, tangling his fingers with Draco’s, holding his hand tight. Ron’s furious flush, which had begun to creep up from the collar of his short-sleeved button-down, flared up his neck and straight to his ears when he saw their joined hands. Harry could practically see smoke coming out of his fiery hair.

“Draco, babe, you should go,” Harry said in an undertone.

“Did you just call me ‘babe’?”

“Is that really – ”

“No!” Ron bellowed. “You stay right there where I can see you!”

“Ron,” Harry warned, trying to keep his voice calm and level. “Your fight isn’t with him, it’s with me, alright?”

“It bloody hell is with you, but it’s with that son of a bitch too!” Ron spat. Harry felt Draco try to edge out from behind him, but just as he did so Ron whipped out his wand and pointed it over Harry’s head straight at Draco. “Don’t you fucking move,” he snarled through gritted teeth.

“Ron! Please! Let’s just talk about this!” Harry insisted, his hands raised palms up, trying to calm the situation down. Ron barked out a hollow laugh.

“Sure, yeah, _mate_ , let’s just talk,” Ron sneered. “Let’s just talk about how you sent my brother to bloody Azkaban!”

“Ron, he murdered five people…”

Ron cut him off with a scoff. “They were only Death Eaters!” he said. Draco tensed behind Harry, and he squeezed Draco’s hand in warning, but it was too late.

“Two of those people were my parents, Weasley,” Draco snapped.

“Yeah, well they fucking deserved it!”

“Ron!”

“You know I’m right, Harry! And what? George goes to Azkaban for doing something that during the war would have made him a hero? What’s right about that? Where’s the _justice_ in that?”

“The war is over, Ron!” Harry shouted. “We can’t just go around killing people in their homes. That’s murder!”

“Not if it’s justified!” Ron yelled back. “Lucius Malfoy was the one who put that bloody Horcrux in Ginny’s cauldron back in second year! He was there at the Ministry when Sirius died! He wanted to turn us over to You-Know-Who at the Manor! He fucking deserved what he got!”

“So what if he did?”

Harry looked at Draco in surprise. Tears were starting to spill down Draco’s flushed cheeks, and even as he clenched his jaw, Harry saw his chin tremble. “Draco,” Harry whispered, “it’s okay, let me handle this.” But Draco shook his head, a determined light in his eyes.

“‘Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement,’” Draco quoted, his voice shaking. In any other moment, Harry would have teased him for quoting Tolkien, but now, his heart was in his throat and all he could do was look at Draco with all his love.

“Yes, my father may have deserved to die,” Draco continued. “But that was not for your brother to decide. He had cancer, did you know that? My mother told me last November. I hadn’t talked to him in years, not after everything, and not even that would have swayed me if Pansy hadn’t convinced me that I would regret it for the rest of my life.

“He was not a perfect father, and despite all my efforts when I was younger, I wasn’t a perfect son. But I wanted to try to make some memories, some good – some _better_ memories to remember him by. The Healer’s gave him a year, maybe two. Thanks to your brother, he got six months. And I am sorry, for everything my family and I have done to you and your family, but that doesn’t mean any one of you can play God with our lives. So please, please, just listen – I am sorry. For everything. But Harry was just doing his job, and I am just trying to do right by him.”

Ron’s hand holding his wand shook. He readjusted his grip and took a broken, trembling breath. Harry turned fully to Draco. “I didn’t know that about Lucius,” he said quietly. Draco blinked, wiped away the tears with the heel of his palm.

“No one did,” he mumbled. “Just me and my mother. He didn’t want anyone to know. Doesn’t matter now.”

Ron lowered his wand, his face pale. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he looked from Draco to Harry and back. He put his wand away and pointed a finger at them. “This isn’t over,” he growled. Then he turned, grabbing a pinch of Floo powder from the bowl on the mantle piece, and disappeared into the green flames.

Harry let out the breath he’d been holding. He pulled Draco into his arms, leaning their foreheads together, breathing and shaking together. “Are you okay?” Harry murmured, peppering kisses on Draco’s cheeks, his forehead, the corners of his mouth. Draco nodded. He brushed away the drying tear tracks on Harry’s cheeks – when had he started crying?

“Are you okay?” Draco whispered back as he held Harry’s face with his hands. Harry nodded, waving off his concern.

“Yeah, of course, spectacular,” he said sarcastically, a wry smile on his trembling lips. He grew serious under Draco’s narrowed eyes. “I’ll be fine,” he assured him. He pushed the hair off Draco’s forehead, tucked a stray loose curl behind his ear. “He’s my best friend. Hermione and I will talk some sense into him. I’m just sorry you had to deal with that.”

Draco shook his head. “No,” he said. “It needed to happen. I apologised to Hermione” – he had met with her shortly after she visited – “and if I wasn’t so afraid he was going to deck me again, I would have apologised to Weasley as well before now.” He sighed, closing his eyes. “He deserves more,” he whispered, as if to himself, “after everything my family has done to his.”

“Hey.” Harry flicked Draco’s nose to get him to open his eyes, which he did with an indignant yelp. “You didn’t kill Fred. You didn’t force George’s hand. And you can’t be held responsible for what your father did.”

Draco frowned. “Shouldn’t I? I followed in his footsteps all those years. I approved of what he did before the war.”

“But then you became your own man,” Harry insisted. Draco scoffed and tried to turn away, but Harry held him tight. “I’ve seen you, Draco. All of you. You are not your father. You’re you. And I love you.”

Draco gasped softly. Since their talk the night after the hearing, they hadn’t said anything about love, tip-toeing around their feelings in favour of focusing on returning their lives to normal. But now the words were out, and Draco searched Harry’s face, his eyes wide. “Do you mean that?” he asked, his voice quiet and small.

Harry nodded. He’d known when he and Hermione had argued. He’d known when he had watched Draco’s memories, when he had kissed him for the first time, when Draco had moved his things from the guest room into Harry’s bedroom. He’d known when Draco had excitedly shown him new buds forming on Amelia the orchid’s stalk, when he had looked over from reading _The Two Towers_ in bed and seen Draco curled up asleep beside him with that little worried crease between his brows. There wasn’t one moment when Harry definitively realised that he loved Draco Malfoy. There was a multitude, drops in an endless ocean.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling up at Draco. “I do.” Draco beamed.

“I love you, too.”

They kissed, slow and sweet and deep. They only broke apart when Harry’s stomach growled and Draco laughed, the sound like a bubbling stream in the sunlight. Harry grinned. Another drop in the ocean.


End file.
